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‘‘GOOD-NIGHT, DEAR GRANDFATHER, GooD-NIGuT !”—[See Page 127. ] 


The Cheveley 2 Novels. 


WE: oAz7 eat Bi 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 


IN TWO VOLUMES 


Vou. I. 


NEW YORK: 


HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
FRANKLIN SQUARE, 


VSR 


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TO 


CHARLES CHEVELEY, Ese, 


IN GRATEFUL RECOLLECTION OF UNVARYING KINDNESS AND SYMPATHY, 


I DEDICATE 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


THE INITIAL WORK OF A SERIES I PROPOSE, WITH YOUR PERMISSION, 


TO ENTITLE 


THE CHEVELEY NOVELS. 


THE AUTHOR. 


Pe fares Ce oe 
‘ . 


td 


iVaHo, 


i AL OE 
i ke i 


THE CHARACTERS. 


4 


IN THE MINISTRY. 


The Rev. Westley Garland. .The Minister. 
The Rev. Robert Evelyn :; Pie Catites! 
The Rev. Spencer Webb.. 
The Rev. William Arden ..Pastor of a Village Church 
in Yorkshire. 
- Dr. Christopher Cricket ...A Nonconformist Divine. 


The Rev. Jacob Jones ..... Of Pisgah Tabernacle. 

IN THE BLUE-BOOK,. 
Lady Helen Lindon....... Sovereign in her own Right. 
Lady Guilmere ......++.+. A gracious Gentlewoman. 
The Duchess of Main- 


\ A Leader of Ton. 


WAVING se cine cleeidsics® 
the Gute of OOM 5 target Langue. 
Hon. Mrs. FredericGlover..Champion of Woman’s 
Rights. 
Harold, Lord Lindon ..... Of SterEeRTON Manor. 
Frank, Lord Ellerby...... A Patron of the Fine Arts. 


The Duke of Mainwaring. .Of the “ Four-in-hand Club.” 


oe” recs. With Taste for the Antique. 
Lord Darrell ...:.ce0s.006 Old Red Sandstone Period. 
Sir Kinnaird Dalton...... A wealthy Baronet. 
Sir Claude Marston Chef- rome 
SUIVION Ts wit aeie'e. os scvsi «atm is 
Sir Horace Vivian........ A Victim to the Proprieties. 
Sir Charles Neville........ The Votary of Fashion. 
Beresford Travers, Esq....Of Breresrorp Court. 
Ernest Bruce, Esq. ....... A Landed Proprietor. 
Elmore Elsynge, Esq...... The Heir to Frogeyronp. 
IN THE PROFESSIONS. 
Greville Lovelace.......... A Sculptor. 
William Arden........... Qualifying for the Bar. 
George Percival.. ........ An Author. 
DPRINACROLR os ceca ise ct cte ess A kind-hearted Medical Man. 
DIT TATUNGEN Fie e sia oi0'e ainieisig:s « The leading Practitioner of 
SFEABOROUGH. 
UPR P CONTOUR oe .6 <u sie aielareiens x3 A Solicitor. 
IN PRIVATE LIFE, 
Ashton St. Aubyn ........ Gentleman, of the Hovsz 
UPON THE CLIFF. 
- Mr. Herbert Garston...... A Hunter of dangerous 
Game. 
Mr. Samuel Percival...... A retired Bookseller. 


Mr. Jeremiah Grannet....Of Art-ful Tendencies. 
J. Arthur Anderson, Esq. .An inveterate Miser. 
Rehoboam Grivper, Esq. ..A Bank Director. 


Geofirey Hamilton........ Of the Bisuor’s Hovst. 
IN BOYHOOD. 
PEELED ert ietar. Gro ois Siaiapia = sie The gentle Page. 
Lorry Vincent...........- “The Boy with the lovely 
Face.” 
OT EIO TI UATES oe tia sso vidoe « Son of a Congregational 
Minister. 


IN GIRLHOOD. 


Lena St. Aubyn .......... Princess of the Cliff. 

FUL TY QUES ins cc's ot The Snowflake. 

Wi0s8¢ BUGS = gle oieie eaters Sweetest of Southern Roses. 

PANUY oe since ielavs'oiesinistaauepi soca Fairy Dancer in Spectacle 
and Ballet. : 

Violet Hamilton.......... Bright Spirit of a Book- 
worm’s Retreat. 

Constance Evelyn........+ A young Beauty of Devon. 

"| MEQTUIE CRB IC, Setesaihisteisiagscs The Daughter of Lais., 
MARRIED LADIES. 

Mrs. Joseph Blake ........ A Lady of Infinite Style. 

Mrs. Major Howard....... Of many accomplishments. 

Mrs. Warburton .......4+. A famous Actress starring 

in the Provinces as Karr 

VANDALEUR. 

M8, LAG 5:0!) 10 Sie 9 syne se Sve The Lady with a Brougham. 

Mrs. Josiah Bubb......... The Silk-mercer’s Lady. 

Mrs. Ebenezer Wriggle ....Of the Fish Sauce Manufac- 
tory. 

Mrs. Samuel Percival..... Of Queen Srreet, Pappine- 
TON. 


Mrs. Thomas Percival ....Of the Warren Farm. 


SPINSTERS, 


eee eee eee 


Aunt Penelope 
Aunt Hebé 
AUN PRYGIS)«.ci5< we si0s « 
Aunt Minerva........+. 
AUNT DIGNG Wess ca tee « 


Feet oewe seeee 


The Goddesses. 


Ce 


BURT NCS . tock. cet 

Aunt Iphigenia ........ 

AUN BUAANE <.0 600s 60 J 

Bie asencie ect A Farmer’s Sister. 

Miss Turner........... -,..A Pew-opener. 

Miss Charlotte Caddie..... Lady Superior of the Insti- 
tution of Scandal. 


Miss Merino Bobbin ...... The Lady in need of Pro- 
tection. 
Gabrielle .e Ok ch seaman re ‘¢ An almost ideal Character, 


but sufficiently human to 
be interesting.” 


LADIES ABOUT WHOM THERE IS A DOUBT. 


Miss Kitty Ticklewich..... A Maiden of gushing Pleas- 
‘ antries. 
Hortense Brandon ........ The exceedingly quiet Per- 
son. 
MPS Vineeane, or mele « xe aicvais An elegant Schemer. 
Me 88 DCagte! a srorco ose octoiny ists Erring, but a Mother. 
Madame Reignard........ Teacher of Deportment. 


Mrs. Maneater............ Of the Royal Menagerie. 


10 
WIDOWS. 

Mrs. Lionel Travers ...... Whose History closely con- 
cerns The Minister. 

MES AGATBLON Joists aiajcie'st sete The Relict of a thorough 

English Gentleman. 

Mrsc EVANS. 2.00 ole seein A Congregational Minister’s 
Widow. 

Mrs. Elsynge .....-..-+++. The Mistress of Frocey- 
Ponp Hai. 

Mrs, Westwood...........++ Mr. Bruce’s Housekeeper. 

Mrs. Sanderson ........... Mr. Garland’s Housekeeper 
in Brieuton. 

Mrs. Mellerton...........++ Mr. Garland’s Housekeeper 


at HAWKINGDEAN. 


Mrs. Robertson ........... Mr. Garland’s Housekeeper 


in Lonnon. 

Mrs. Bobbin....... broke yale Of Bobbin’s Drapery Em- 
porium. 

IN TRADE. 

Joseph Blake ...2.4, +0. +95 Chemist and  Druggist, 
Brighton. 

DADO 1S sciie' en sesien nya .A Pawnbroker. 

Thomas Percival ......... A Hertfordshire Farmer. 

FORD CSO ria weiner ete ae A Sussex Yeoman. 

Reuben SUA oc wcce- ss Miller and Bailiff. 

Mr. Simcoz..... nites nape sy Curator of Seaborough Mu- 
seum. 

Ma TAT CI arti nides antes Tonic Ale Brewer. 

Ebenezer Wriggle ......... Fish Sauce and Pickle Man- 
ufacturer to the Royal 
Family. 

VOSULTE BUDD thie cantes ete Silk-mercer by Appoint- 
ment. 

Edward Summers ........ Vendor of Books, Fancy Ar- 


ticles, and Photographs. 


THE CHARACTERS. 


Uriah Sticky Grocer. 

Bacchus Bin | Committee | Wine-merchant. 
Silverside for the Jeweler. 

Panel | Testimonial. | Coach-builder. 
Easel Artist. 


IN BOHEMIA. 


Dickson Cheffinger ........ Not so Mad as he seems. 

Andrew Wilson........... A Violinist. 

Jimmy Ringdom ....... Of Ringdom and Tanner's 

Billy Tanner . ae. 4.63 Hippodrome. 

“* Walter Gordon”....... .. A Deserter from the Circus. 

Boneless Joey of Japan ...Likewise of the Amphi- 
theatre. 

Major Wellesley Howard ..Of uncertain military Ante- 
cedents. 

Jael-Ishmael .......0.06.- King of the Gypsy Tribes 
in England. 


IN RASCALITY. 


Noel Barnardcckw iciccccsce Surnamed MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Bartholomew Rolf ........ The Utility Villain upon a 
novel Principle. 

Stephen Miles .......1.--- Chief Clerk at the Bank. 

Coke O’Connor.....0++- «+ Attorney at Law. 

John Beech; |. cats. seneeer One of the Fancy, and Deal- 


er in Foreign Birds. 


IN SERVIOK. 


SUMMONS, saeco Reece Confidential Servant to Sir 
’ Kinnaird Dalton. 
HaMMond cc oacns tases Sir Kinnaird’s Valet. 
Williams's cn Faithful Servants at the 
Martha Same ........-.- House upon the Cliff. 
Brown i... tees A Yorkshire‘ Fisherman. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


VOLUME I. 


CHAPTER I. 
THE STORY OPENS IN BRIGHTON. 


JosePH BLakk, seated at his desk before a 
monstrous tome of Latin science, ever and anon 
directed a keen business glance over the area 
of his shop, where several fashionably dressed 
purchasers were selecting the toilet elegancies 
and other trifles which add to the attraction of 


modern chemistry. Taken throughout, perhaps, 


this shop of Joseph Blake’s was one of the hand- 
somest of its kind to be found in Brighton: an 
eminently genteel shop, which a duchess might 
have entered, and where the uninviting odor of 
drugs was indistinguishable beneath a pleasant 
cloud of essences and perfumes. Nevertheless, 
Joseph Blake possessed a great prestige for the 
excellence of his medicaments, and the doctors 
treasured the belief that their prescriptions, care- 
fully prepared under the personal supervision of 
the proprietor, were here made up with a scrupu- 
lous care and excellence deserving of their con- 
fidence. 

Joseph Blake was highly esteemed in the town, 
not alone for his business qualities and general 
integrity, but for a genial, kindly benevolence, and 
a grace of manner as appreciable in the man of 
business as in the peer. But this business was 
a sore point with Mrs. Blake, who had come of 
professional people, and had very nice notions 
about caste. Never was this good lady more put 
out than when some unfortunate wight chanced 
to speak of Joseph as a tradesman. ‘I would 
have you to know,” she would say, “that the 
chemical profession is not a trade, and that a man 
must first become a gentleman before he can be- 
come a chemist.” This generally settled the mat- 
ter for the natyral life of the person convinced. 
As a point of interest, no one ever presumed to 
argue with Mrs. Blake upon any subject, it being 
a principle of that lady’s policy never to give in, 
and to develop the aggressive as she warmed to 
the argument. They had one child, a little daugh- 
ter, and of so charming a disposition, it was tacit- 
ly admitted by their friends that N elly Rose was 
‘“* papa’s own child.” 

Upon the afternoon lied the story opens Mr. 
Blake was rather more absorbed than usual in the 
fathoming of the technical vade-mecum before him, 
a prescription of an eminent London physician 
demanding his instant attention. Lady Guilmere, 
resident in one of the chief aristocratic squares, 
had been dangerously ill, until it became impera- 


_ tive to invoke the skill of some great physician. 


This prescription was the result of that consulta- 
tion, and Mr. Blake was deep in its direction when 
a tall, singular-looking personage entered the shop, 


and, marching past customers and assistants, made 
straight for the sanctum of the master, slightly to 
Mr. Blake’s annoyance. 

“Mr. Blake, I presume ?” the tall stranger said, 
leaning his arms on the glass and mahogany screen 
to the desk, and peering over at the chemist with 
the most basilisk-like eyes the latter thought he 
had ever seen. 

“That is my name, Sir!” a little irritably, for 
the chemist, as became one privileged to write 
Medicine Baccalaureus and Societatis Medice Lon- 
dinensis Socius after plain Joseph Blake, especially 
disliked an interruption of this kind when deep 
in pharmaceutics. 

“Glad to have found you at home, Mr. Blake ; 
proud to make your acquaintance. Any friend 
or relative of Joshua Blake commands—will ever 
command—my undivided regard.” 

“You know my brother, Sir ?” 

“He is my particular friend. 
of introduction ; permit me, Sir—” 

The stranger, whom J oseph thought uncom- 
monly like Mephistopheles, handed the chemist a 
letter. 

““My brother was never very choice of ac- 
quaintance even when in England, and now he 
has settled in Australia I suppose he meets with 
all sorts.” 

With which innocent remark, not noticing the 
playful shrugging of the shoulders by the other, 
Joseph Blake ran his eye down the letter. 


I hold a es 


* ADELAIDE, S, AUSTRALIA. 
“Dear Brotaer JosepH,—Allow me to com- 
mend to the notice of yourself and friends Mr. 
Noel Barnard, a truly worthy and estimable gen- 
tleman, who hails from Perth settlement, Swan 
River, from whence he brings unexceptionable 
testimonials. He has been a considerable travel- 
ler, and is now bound for Europe; he-is very en- 
tertaining company. I take occasion to send by 
him a little case of snakes for your drawing-room, 
which accept with love, from your affectionate 

brother, JOSHUA.” 


“Have you the case with you, Mr.—Mr. Bar- 
nard ?” 

“At my hotel, Sir. 
down to you.” 

“Now I was going to beg you would not trou- 
ble, for I really have no room for curiosities. 
Pray keep it in remembrance of my brother, who 
seems to hold you in such particular esteem. 
And now, how can I serve you? My capacity is 
very limited, for I am so occupied with business 
that I get but little out-door recreation.” 

“No consequence, my dear Sir; there is noth- 


The man shall bring it 


12 


ing you can do to oblige me, much as I am sure 
you would wish to do so. ButI thought I would 
give you a look in, as I am here for a day or two. 
A charming town, Sir; does credit to your munici- 
pal government!” 

Now this was Joseph’s weak point; and, plum- 
ing himself, he admitted it did credit to his broth- 
er councilors, and invited the gentleman with 
Australian credentials into the back parlor to 
take a glass of sherry. 

With a polite bow to one or two of the cus- 
tomers known to him, Mr. Blake passed through 
the shop, followed by the grave-looking stran- 
ger. 

“Very snug, upon my word,” rubbing his hands 
and looking round Mr, Blake’s comfortable little 
retreat. 

Then, over sherry, the gentleman from Austra- 
lia discovered it was Saturday, and “‘ By-the-bye, 
where do you recommend for a nice quiet service 
to-morrow? I admire a brilliant preacher. I 
think the poet what’s-his-name says, ‘a good man 
eloquent!’ It seems to be the fashion now for 
every body to run after this Mr. Garland of yours. 
How ever did you contrive to secure so bright 
and shining a light for the provinces ?” 

“Well, although I’ve attended at the church 
since and before Mr. Garland’s time, that is more 
than I can tell you. I have reason to believe this 
is his first charge, but Iam not sure, and I fancy 
others are content to trouble as little as myself. 
We are fortunate to obtain so gifted a preacher ; 
we know the nomination to have'been correct, we 
leave the rest.” 

The gentleman with credentials looked differ- 
ent ways out of the corners of his eyes, and, by 
way of one corner, saw an assistant approaching, 
and helped himself to another glass of sherry, 
permitting the biscuit to crumble slowly into the 
glass, as though each crumb were a thought, and 
fishing after these with the major portion as de- 
liberately as though stringent issues weighed upon 
the sport. 

Mr. Blake looked up inquiringly upon the en- 
trance of his assistant. 

“Lady Guilmere’s servant, Sir, to know if the 
prescription is made up.” 

“ Just say it shall be sent at once. 
ple in the shop ?” 

“Not so many, Sir. 
come in.” 

“Fortunate,” said the gentleman; ‘I shall be 
able to take a glance at your celebrity. Er— 
which college did you say? Went to college 
myself; perhaps we may have met. It is very in- 
teresting renewing old acquaintance—very !” 

He thereupon stole a hasty inspection —the 
chemist rather amused at the possibility of this 
gaunt and shaggy wanderer having been upon cul- 
tivation-par with the elegant and refined Westley 
Garland. 

Now it happened at times to be Mrs. Blake’s 
pleasure to enter the shop much as any other 
grand lady might, and as she herself was in the 
habit of doing in towns where unknown, and with 
much majesty buy a pennyworth of lozenges for 
her little girl, while leisurely examining the hand- 
some costumes ranged beside her husband’s coun- 
ter. Mrs. Blake thus entered at the time of the Rev. 
Mr. Garland’s purchase of a box of eau-de- Cologne, 


Many peo- 
Mr. Garland has just 


and looking from the counter with nervous ab-| care for the sake of your people. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


e 


self confronted by this prepossessing lady and her 
exceedingly pretty child. His gaze rested but an 
instant upon the countenance of the mother; 
upon that of the child it dwelt with an expression 
of indescribable pain. His back was turned to 
the red-curtained window of the parlor, his face 
was toward the sea. A look came over the eyes 
so sad, its eloquence, without the pleading of that 
voice which thrilled all hearts, would have moved 
one to tears. He recovered himself in an instant, 
and continued the selection of his articles. 

Mrs. Blake, seating herself with regal stateli- 
ness, looked full at this notable. She had long 
wished to “catch him out,” as she termed it, and 
now to have this pleasure i in their. own shop was 
indeed a red-letter event. To hear the voice that 
was driving her sex to distraction at her very el- 
bow so set the good woman quivering that her 
husband, had he seen her, would have immediate- 
ly administered a composing restorative. And . 
what a melodious, yet tenderly toned, voice it was, 
subdued from the sonorous expression of public 
utterance! Howitthrilledone! Even little Rose 
looked up winningly in the great man’s face, and 
their eyes met, and Rose ceased her thoughtless 
prattle, becoming grave, oddly grave for years be- 
low their teens; the mourning and hungering look 
haunted her. 

“Your popular divine looks rather pale, Mr. 
Blake. Does not enjoy good rest, perhaps ?” 

“T think he overstudies, Sir. Mr. Garland is 
an active reformer, and leaves no stone unturned 
in the execution ef his noble purpose, I fear he 
is working himself to death.” 

‘“‘T suppose he indulges, like the rest of us, in a 
little medicine now and then—something in the 
way of opiates, or the wherewith to counteract 
the nervous shiverings some overtaxed people are 
troubled with ?” 

The chemist looked up very much surprised. 

~“T declare, Sir, if you had been in my place, 
you could not have described the symptoms with 
greater accuracy—” 

“T know all about it, bless you. Look what I 
used to go through at "college. Overstrain, Sir, 
overstrain : it’s an undue-pressure age, an era of 
high speed, a— Beg pardon, is that a moth on my 
hat? Great objection to those things. Perhaps 
you'll pass my hat, for I must be going, and I’m 
delaying you. So pleased to have seen you—any 
friend of dear Joshua’s;” and with six grave 
strides the singular individual walked through the 
shop, brushed past the professional man’s wife, 
and peered, in passing, under the brim of the Min- 
ister’s hat; but he, so intent upon other things, 
took not the remotest notice, did not move even 
by a respiration; in fact, was as one petrified. 
Mrs. Blake broke the spell in the slightly prosaic 
style of, ‘ Let me have another pennyworth of the 
peppermint lozenges.” 

What a good thing it is that there are some of 
this class of people about ! how their rude blunt- 
ness often relieves a breathless pain! 

Mr. Blake came into the shop, bowing with much 
deference to the Minister, who gracefully gave his 
hand to this member of his congregation, the same 
thereupon introducing his wife and daughter. Mr. 
Garland appearing visibly moved, the chemist said, 
kindly, 

“T fear you are not very well to-day, Sir. Take 
Will you step 


ruptness peculiar to him, the preacher found him- ; in and rest a while?” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Tf you do not mind, I shall feel pleasure,” 
bowing with appreciation as gracious as it was 
sincere. Mr. Garland was conducted to their 
drawing-room, and he took occasion to explain, 
in low and trembling tones, to Joseph: 

“The sight of your little girl revived an old 
sorrow; I have lost one whom she resembles 
feature for feature. Ihave suffered much in my 
time, Mr. Blake.” 

““T somehow thought so.” 

“ And you know how easily wounds may be 
re-opened. But I have overcome the temporary 
weakness, and shall always see your girl with 
strange pleasure; let her come to me and make 
friends. If you are willing, I shall be more than 
pleased to see her at my house; I shall think it 
kind of you.” 

- This was said so simply, yet with such earnest 
eagerness, Joseph Blake assented with the ut- 
most cordiality. 

“T am sure you are quite welcome to Rose 
whenever you like to have her; it is very good to 
take this notice of our child. I beg you will send 
her home whenever troublesome. ‘Take care not 
to spoil her, Sir, children are so quickly spoiled ; 
but you will excuse me, I have an immediate pre- 
scription to prepare. Can you tell me how Lady 
Guilmere is to-day, Sir, if you have called?” 
Lady Guilmere was one of the most devoted at- 
tendants at the fashionable temple in which 
Westley Garland officiated. A slight flush rose 
to the pale cheek while he replied, 

“T fear her ladyship is sinking fast.” Upon 
hearing which the professional man hurriedly 
left the room, begging Mr. Garland to await his 
return, and sending Rose in to him immediately. 
This act the other noticed, although passing no 
remark: little deeds are magnified into great fa- 
vors by the sensitive and the suffering. 

Rose was not timid or even hesitative, but, kit- 
ten in arms, walked straight up to their pastor, 
and with delightful ingenuousness offered him 
her hand. 

‘And we are to be friends, Rose ?” 

“JT have always hoped you would speal to me 
some day.” 

“May I ask why?” 

** Because I felt I should love you. I look for 
Sunday’s coming, and welcome the day as I nev- 
er used to do. Somehow it is not like the same 
church when you begin to read or preach.” 

“‘ Am I so very irreverent ?” 

“Oh no; but we have been used to such differ- 
ent ministers—dull, and giving one the fidgets—I 
always went tosleep. But I don’t sleep now; the 
morning does not seem long enough.” 

A pleased smile played about the Minister’s 
mouth; it was more grateful flattery than any 
heard in Brighton. Perhaps he recalled two oth- 
er pretty lips that had aforetime praised his 
reading. 

Then suddenly the smile faded, and his face 
assumed an expression of pain. 

“Noel Barnard here?” he thought. “ There is 
now no safety; recognized by him! I believed 
my very publicity would prove a safeguard. And 
that man must cross my path like some despoil- 
- inginfluence. Is he destined to dog and betray me 
unto the end?” 


13 


CHAPTER II. 
A MINISTER OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. 


Tue Rev. Westley Garland was called a great 
preacher; and if wide-spread fame, a wealthy, 
well-filled church, and praise on all hands be 
greatness, assuredly the public voice spake truth. 
His portraits were in North Street and the King’s 
Road, his books in the libraries, his autographs 
in the first of albums. Somebody had seen him 
in St. Paul’s at a week-day service, and forthwith 
held to the opinion, manifoldly circulated, that 
Mr. Garland, although his church was filled solely 
by his own matchless eloquence, was at heart in 
sympathy with the High-Church party; but then, 
somebody also had seen him at a children’s serv- 
ice in Queen Square Congregational Chapel, and 
these clashed at the tea table; a more startling 
revelation yet coming from a third, who knew to 
a dead certainty that he had sat all night beside 
a poor sick woman who sold shell-boxes on the 
beach, and was a Roman Catholic. This had to 
be reconciled with the fact that Mr. Garland’s 
housekeeper had been seen taking a basket of 
good things to the dwelling of a poor woman who 
had been in better circumstances, but who—was 
a Baptist. 

To chronicle correctly, of all the clergy who 
had supplied Brighton tea tables with gossip, 
Westley Garland was the most provoking man; 
he was so mysterious, so handsome, so wealthy, 
so talented, so unmarried! He gave a Dramatic 
Reading at the Dome for a charity: the tickets, 
albeit a guinea, were caught up the day of the ad- 
vertisement.. Such a scramble was never known, 
nor such a reading; and for once in a way ticket- 
holders admitted they had received more than 
their guinea’s worth, 

He was the beau divine of good society, and 
people swore by him in circles of culture and re- 
finement ; yet somehow little children lisped his 
name, and looked for his coming on their way to 
school. He puzzled, and worried, and fretted, and 
moved, and for the comparatively short time he 
had been in Brighton he had caused more specu- 
lation than any man before him. 

They came upon him in such odd places: he 
had been seen talking with circus people, all 
among grooms and horses; with fishermen down 
by the boats near the Old Pier; with ploughers 
on the broad height of Downland ; with the rough 
crew frequenting a low bowling-saloon; at mid- 
night, using gentle entreaty with the outcast; in 
startling places, at unseasonable and, as some 
said, unreasonable times. 

But it was very strange: look the girls their 
hardest, saint-like and devout, over the hymn- 
books, he seemed as unimpressionable as marble ; 
went straight on with the marvelous eloquence, 
the grace of thought, the music of language ; ev- 
ery attitude and gesture a kingly study, and—a 
witness of sublime indifference to the blandish- 
ments of the sirens. Then they commenced pick- 
ing him to pieces, were sure there was something 
wrong, would give any thing to learn a little of 
his past. Where did he come from? For, al-: 
though nobody noticed it at the time, all being 
done in the orthodox fashion, he had sprung up 
like a mushroom in the midst of them. They 
recollected the white-haired incumbent’s death, 
and the lank curate’s doing duty, and then this 
handsome fellow preaching once or twice in a 


14 


gown splendid as a bishop’s, and with a sad 
sweet smile enchanting as Charles the First’s; 
and forthwith the pews entered for the prize. 
But Abelard was insensible, and Héloise em- 
broidered her offertory bags in vain. Certain it 
is, no efforts within the limits of decency were 
wanting to induce Mr. Garland to alter his es- 
tate; but he was calmly unconscious of the com- 
motion. His winning, affable smile won many 
hearts among the elders also, and the tender 
thrill of his voice fell deep into many souls, who 
told no word to others of his spell upon their 
lonely lives. 

And it was known that the grasp of his hand 
was cordial alike for rich and for poor; there 
was none of the approved coolness at contact 
with the unfortunate. So he came to live in the 
hearts of the poor also; and these stole ashamed- 
ly into the free seats and north pole of the gal- 
leries, and, hanging upon his utterance, thought 
’ the Word came with sweeter force from his lips 
than any other’s. 

The crowd he drew around him knew but his 
strength ; rulers must have no weakness. Yet 
a face of not more than twelve sea-side summers 
had power to shake him like a reed. Some called 
the pathos which at times moved the Church, or 
the sensitive part of the Church, to tears, Art, 
when it was the cry wrung from his very soul, 
and, place and people all forgotten, he was alone 
with his God. 

Mr. Garland was assisted by two curates; one 
a blonde, seraph-like creature, with mild, indefi- 
nite manners, and halting, unpleasant speech. He 
was there before Mr. Garland came, but the lat- 
ter could not behave cruelly to any one, although 
the young man often made him creep in the com- 
munion chair. Garland was a splendid reader, 
and it naturally grated upon his sensibilities 
more than upon others’. The second was a pale, 
thoughtful man, of middle age, with a face lined 
with traces of old care. He had come to Garland 
in bad condition, and but one and sevenpence in 
pocket, but with such a weird, pitiful tale! No- 
body was any the wiser, and shortly afterward 
the gentleman commenced duty at a hundred and 
twenty the year. And be sure he was a gentle- 
man of family and University degree; for Westley 
Garland was one of the few who kept faith with 
his God, his fellow, and himself. Great friend- 
ship sprang up between these two—on one side 
arisen of gratitude and a species of loving rever- 
ence rather rare in this world; on the other, the 
product of interest and sympathy. The card of 
this last-named curate we present: it was— 


Rev. SPENCER WEBB. 


Having nothing to do with the other young 
man, we drop him out of the book. 

One of the Northamptonshire Webbs, people 
said who knew nothing about it; for the Rev. 
Spencer was as much connected with the said 
Webbs as with the White Bears. 

One evening, at eight-o’clock service, Mr. Gar- 
land was sitting within the communion rails while 
the Rev. Spencer read prayers. Of course the 
place was very full, for the popular favorite was 
expected to preach, and some very nice people, as 
Nelly Rose put it, were poked into the corner; 
but even as those who enter the latest often get 
the high places, so upon this evening the tall man 
of the chemist’s shop, whom the Minister had 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


spoken of as Noel Barnard, was conducted by the 
worthy pew-opener of that aisle to the Minister’s 
own seat. This was on line with the pulpit, in 
full view of the altar, where a man sat, stately as 
one of the old Northern kings, with a statuesque 
poet face that might have caused the swart daugh- 
ters of Israel to crimson to the glow of the cactus, 
had he been monarch of the troubled soul before 
whom David stood shoulder to the harp. Thus, 
when Mr. Garland walked from the inclosure to 
the pulpit, and, in process of removing his pocket- 
handkerchief from the breast pocket, dropped a 
letter on the altar stairs, that accident was re- 
marked by the said Mr. Barnard, who had his eye 
on it therefrom, meditating possessing himself of 
the missive. In this he was forestalled by the 
same amiable and precise maiden lady whose 
province and privilege it was to conduct Mr. Gar- 
land’s admirers to their seats, feeling all the time, 
and that very honestly, that never one of them en- 
tertained as profound regard as did herself for 
the brilliant orator. So long had she played the 
somnambulist under his predecessor, this man’s 
rhetoric, like a torrent of flowers, was a revela- 
tion, and thrilled the old heart as she had 
thought it would never more be thrilled in this 
world. 

Now while Miss Turner stood by the door re- 
ceiving the smiling ‘“Good-night” of those who 
knew her, the tall man paused on his way out. 

“What are pews in this church ?” 

“Guinea the quarter, Sir; twelve shillings in 
the gallery.” 

“Ah, very good. I must try one or two other 
positions before deciding. Don’t live altogether 
in Brighton. Should not be a very regular attend- 
ant. Get ’em cheaper, I s’pose, on that ’count? 
By-bye, are views published of the church? Fine 
interior, va-ry !”’ (looking round with apparent in- 
terest). 

“Yes, Sir; Pve some on sale at my shop, if 
you like to step round. It’s closed. Turner, 
Preston Terrace. But I’m just going home.” _ 

“You are very good, ‘Lead on, Macduff! ” 

“Margaret Turner, Sir, Stationery and Berlin 
Wools.” ; 

Miss Turner let herself in, and the tall man 
had to stoop. He remained in the passage (they 
had entered at the private door of the little mart, 
over which a card with APARTMENTS wooed the 
public to a closer inspection), while his conduct- 
ress procured a light. She then requested him to 
walk into the sitting-room—a comfortable, order- 
ly, clean, very -much-antimacassared chamber, 
with a fine moonlight view of a back yard and 
two cats on the wall. Miss Turner laid down 
half a dozen hymn-books she carried, drew down 
the blind, lighted the gas in the shop, and— 

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind stepping this 
way, if you please, Sir?” 

The views were in a line under a glass case; 
the stranger stooped, dangled a glass, passed 
along the line with military precision of a Field- 
Marshal reviewing, and— 

‘“‘Va-ry fine interior, va-ry !” 

Miss Turner waited, blew her nose, tapped with 
her finger-nails on the glass, and adjusted a, stray 
curl. Still the stranger did not attempt to make 
any purchase. 

‘‘By-the-bye, got ’ny portraits of —of—” 

“Mr. Garland ?” 

‘Exactly! my friend Garland-—going to call— 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


pleased to take any commission for you—catch 
the old boy at supper !” 

And now Noel Barnard waited for the letter; 
fish didn’t bite. 

. “Thank you, Sir; we never trouble Mr. Gar- 
land about business. The curates or church- 
wardens—” 

“ Just so—not to detain you—don’t care much 
for these views—misty rather—bad light. Got 
ny paper—note—letter—drop a. line—clerical 
friend ?” 

Miss Turner did not take it, and with quiet 
business tact placed a box of assorted writing- 
paper before the customer, who looked at the 
quality, shook his head, and held it up to the 

as. 

“Thought so; worse than sugar-paper—could 
ha’ swore to th’ feel—never buy this fellow’s— 
‘pen catches—got ’ny envelopes ?” 

Miss Turner brought forth, wondering but pa- 
~ tient, as became a pew-opener. 

“Not quite the size, you see—as I fold my 
note tripoint, the corners get bent in—these ri- 
diculous things—show you the kind—got one in 
pocket”—(ferreting }—“‘ bless my soul, it’s gone! 
Haven’t picked up a letter, have ye ?” 

This was a coup d’état, and the steely eyes of 
the stranger glittered like a trap. The sallow- 
faced little woman with the bands of gray hair, 
just pulled a linen cuff straight to the wrist, and 
quietly replied, 

“Articles found in the church are taken to 
the vestry. I have not been that side of the 
counter.” 

The gentleman took up his gloves and um- 
brella. 

“Can’t tell you how sorry I am that you haven’t 
what I want; be a better customer another time. 
All in the way of business, you know. Thanks, 
thanks! Tl find the door.” 

He was gone. Just as quietly and patiently 
she replaced the boxes, a still smile, little more 
than the flicker of a rush-light, playing at the 
corners of the dried-up mouth. 

“He saw that dropped,” she said to herself, 
and took the letter from her pocket. She turn- 
ed out the gas in the shop, and kissed the letter 
in the dark; then went into the little room, all 
among the antimacassars, and carefully, loving- 
ly, reverently, placed it in her work-box; not, 
mark you, with ulterior intention of ever reading 
it. It was a foolish dream—a foolish old faith- 
ful heart. She had something now more than 
the haunting recollection of the face—something 
once his, carried about below the faultless cravat, 
and she tripped down to see about supper, return- 
ing shortly with quite a chirp, and a cheerful 
look at the dry bit of cheese; and then—must 
take one more kiss as a sort of grace—and 
daintily, lingeringly, as prolonging the pleasure, 
lifting the lid of the old mother’s work-box, to 
drop it like a guillotine severing the thread of 
her little dream. The letter had disappeared ! 

“He has been back,” muttered Miss Turner, 
with a sardonic composure, scalping a corner of 
the fossil cheese. ‘I should much wonder if 
that party’s principles are founded upon the 
Prayer-Book ; mayhap he belongs to the Dissent- 
ers. I shall know him next time he comes to 
ours, Anyway, I think Mr. Garland should be 
told of this. [ll put on my bonnet again and 
call at Mr. Webb’s.” 


15 


CHAPTER III. 
THE HOUSE THAT WAS BOARDED ROUND. 


Ir was built high upon a Yorkshire cliff, open 
to the expanse of German Ocean; sea-gulls alone 
disturbed its privacy and stared in at the windows 
with wondering eyes, so tried by storms the death- 
ly quiet of the place confused their reckoning al- 
together; it stood bared to wind and weather, 
but solid as the rock upon which the owner had 
erected his lonesome castle. It was grand to 
hear the winds sweep through the shrubberies at 
night, and beset the craggy wall as though an 
army of demons were scaling it with the lightning 
at their flanks. 

At the best this island is a small plot, but 
there are queer sites about it upon which to build 
houses. This builder seemed to have chosen the 
most unlikely. It had its uses, however, as many 
a northern fisherman knew, when on dark nights 
of storm the strange man had all the windows 
aglow with waxen tapers, till the mansion shone 
for leagues like a beacon. 

From the shore—the sea line—the house was 
inaccessible; at the back a devious bramble-en- 
clustered pathway, which only the initiated would 
ever have traced, conducted to the strong iron 
door giving ingress to the boarded court-yard and 
gardens. The house was built on the brink of 
the cliff ; the boundary encircled the whole of the 
steep plateau. Where on. earth the men had 
come from, or how brought their materials for 
building the place, was more than any body could 
say. No one had seen it in process of construc- 
tion, but suddenly a Filey mariner noticed the thing 
—a, habitation, chimney, gable, tower, springing 
from among the dusky trees—and he told his 
mates, shoresmen of Flamborough, Bridlington, 
Whitby, Saltburn, and Redcar; they in time saw 
the house and wondered, saw the birds hovering 
the dizzy depths, and the drapery of flowers trail- 
ing from summit to basement. They became 
used to it: some singular and lonely man retreat- 
ed from the world that had used him unkindly, 
perhaps; and by night, when the red and yellow 
gleam was on their waters, it became companion- 
able, and they grew to bless its sentinel break of 
the long, dark line. 

The house on the cliff was tenanted by one 
Ashton St. Aubyn, gentleman; of high lineage 
and refined tastes, but with a singular antipathy 
to society, either of his order or of the humbler 
classes, Something of a poet, more of an artist, 
he lived a strangely peaceful and ideal life, his 
young daughter his sole companion, if we except 
a favorite hound. From the extraordinary care 
taken in inclosing his domain, it would seem he 
anticipated the intrusion which he shunned—a 
groundless fear, for no living soul had disturbed 
the serenity of the house on the cliff. 

It was a small establishment: St. Aubyn; 
Lena; Mrs. Brandon, her governante and com- 
panion; Jordan, a maid; Martha Saxe, cook and 
housekeeper; St. Aubyn’s man, Williams; and a 
domestic. 

Lena St. Aubyn was a beauty of fifteen, with a 
purely classical face, aristocratic in the region of 
the mouth, with a certain haughtiness derived of 
her race, yet withal ever lovable-looking, gentle, 
and delicate: so delicate, the veins mapped the 
snowy skin, and the fall of a rose-bud would crim- 
son the shoulders. Vivacious, zngénue, girlish as 


16 


when little frocks bobbed the pretty knees, this 
companion of the lonely student seemed the flow- 
er of the home, the sunshine in that castle on the 
crags; princess too she was—woe betide the serv- 
itor that dare dispute her word! It was a pleas- 
ant sight, the sportive girl, graceful as some 
antelope, haunting that wilderness of garden, or 
reading below the shadow of the trees that grew 
thick as in African jungles, as solitary, as deso- 
late. Birds came to the crumbs she scattered, 
conies trooped to her feet, the wild goat browsed 
in her path, sheep of the rock came nibbling to 
the fence and paused, sleepily listening to the 
chanson trilled from her seat near the brier-wood 
and honeysuckle. 

It is a rare thing to see a face you feel would 
love you as you would love it; yet this was the 
face that had grown with the flowers of that gar- 
den above the sea. 

Sometimes when on the grass at the cliff’s 
edge—she delighted in this dangerous vantage- 
point when she could escape espionage—she 
would trail to the brink like some swart girl of 
the red-skins, lean a graceful head over until the 
sweep of hair became woven with weed, and 
watch the breakers at wild play below. Wheel- 
ing birds would look in the eyes, like windows, 
where they saw the clouds again, “the deep, un- 
utterable eyes with down-falling eyelids, full of 
dreams and slumber,” and think them precious 
stones perchance, or stars. 

And in a sumptuous chamber where tawny 
leathers and dead graven gold, old paintings, leop- 
ard skins, and massive ebony and silver blend- 
ed in Roman splendor, there St. Aubyn passed 
the sultry summer noon; his hundred treasures 
displayed to charm the world-sated, beauty-wea- 
ried eyes that knew but a pleasure of all life’s 
pageant—his daughter’s company. Not any one 
in England had known her mother. He had 
come from Eastern lands. A lady who had ad- 
vertised in the Zimes received reply to meet a 
gentleman at Hatchett’s, Dover Street. Willing, 
suave, amiable, motherly, clever, she seemed the 
person he required to take partial care of his 
young—very young daughter; but this important 
member of the house did not immediately appear, 
indeed, not until the house on the cliff was in or- 
der, and master and governante there domiciled, 
Lena was a curious little kitten at that day; all 
frolics and quaintly pretty ways that would creep 
into one’s heart whether one would or no. Over 
floors of the big rooms pattered the small feet, 
music that lessened with years, grew grave, so- 
bered, serene; confined to tracks of the garden 
under breath of the mighty winds that scattered 
the bloom and foam, and beat the broad wings 
of birds athwart the rugzed ledges of the rock. 


ee 


CHAPTER IV. 
MRS. BRANDON. 


Mrs. BRANDON, a widow lady of mature years, 
quiet-mannered, composed ; with jet black brows, 
and the darkest of dark eyes that pierced to the 
soul; with a soft, panther-like step, and a: tact 
that demolished repugnance at the feline proper- 
ties native and natural—Mrs. Brandon had been 
nine years in the house, and without a difference 
of opinion, without a shadow of unpleasantness, 


-A MODERN MINISTER. 


between herself and young charge, or even with 
St. Aubyn himself. That gentleman thought of 
Mrs. Brandon as of a useful and highly estima- 
ble person, genteel, respectable, accomplished ; in 
fact, a treasure, if only for that excellent virtue 
of never raising her voice above a tranquil, lady- 
like tone, and at all times retaining her admira- 
ble self-pos.ession, worry how pupil might, or go 
wrong as things sometimes would. 

One or two quailed before the hard, keen gaze, 
when the quiet woman chose to read. Martha 
Saxe always fidgeted beneath it; even Ashton St. 
Aubyn at times grew uncomfortable. So very 
quiet ; so very good-mannered; so very deep. 

Mrs. Brandon was neatly dressed in black silk, 
some soft cord without rustle; a cap also of rich, 
old-fashioned lace, not worn coquettishly, but the 
black, glossy hair was thin at the parting, and 
the cap came in for decorum. Narrow tuckers 
at the throat and wrist, a Whitby brooch, a hair 
guard, a tiny watch, and a locket containing some 
dead sorrow. This is the inventory of a person 
of remarkable character, of slumbering passion 
held in leash, with a hand of iron incased in 
velvet. 

One day, looking up from his book, moved by 
the guardian presentiment that shapes our fears, 
St. Aubyn found the stealthy watch upon him. 
She was at some mechanical work, finger and 
thumb and needle plying the restless little rou- 
tine of their craft; but he had felt the chill of 
her serpent eyes, and his started from the page, 
dimly conscious of an unpleasant creeping, as 
though a reptile were let loose in his vest. De- 
tected, she arose tranquilly and walked to the 
window near which he was sitting, closing it with 
that gentleness of action which disarms resent- 
ment, and sayitig, with thoughtful dignity, “I . 
fear you will take cold, these moist winds are 
treacherous.” . 

Mr. St. Aubyn merely inclined his head and 
continued his reading, but the look haunted 
him. 

“Where is Lena ?” he asked, abruptly. 

“Trying to make attar with the old rose leaves,” 
answered the lady, dryly, resuming her work. 

“Go and find her, Ponto. Good dog!” 

The animal marched gravely off, Mrs. Bran- 
don’s lip’ curling a shade annoyedly. 

The dog returned, hem of Miss Lena’s dress 
between his teeth. That lovely truant entered, 
all flushed with chemistry and best blood of her 
roses. 

“Oh, pa, dear, ’ve three bottles full; but I 
hadn’t any corks, and I’ve cut the liqueurs. Don’t 
mind, do you, darling ?” 

Round his neck went the arms, down into his 
soul went her loving culprit glances, and he, old 
magistrate, could but smile forgiveness while play- 
fully shaking his head at the naughtiness. 

Mrs. Brandon retired to her own private cham- 
ber, lofty, richly furnished as the remainder of 
that house, and here sank upon an ottoman, a 
shade of great weariness crossing her face, which 
for an instant was haggard and wan. She seem- 
ed another being under pressure of that care, 
whatever it might be. With grim irony her teeth 
met, a smile flickered, then she dallied with the — 
locket appended to her chain; she opened this, 
and there a long, hard, saturnine face—the face 
that confounded poor Miss Turner, the Minister’s 
pew-opener. gy 


re ‘ colleaial AN oT 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


CHAPTER V. 
PICCADILLY. 


A BREAKFAST-ROOM, overlooking the Park, 
shaded by blinds and creepers; coolly elegant, 
chintz, lace, gilding, a delicately penciled paper, 
some water-colors in quiet hues with trellis 
frames, a cream-colored carpet with tiny sprigs 
of fern, the furniture maple and black, the mag- 
nificent mirror also framed in black carving. Un- 
obtrusive taste on all sides. 

Sir Kinnaird Dalton, the owner of the house, 
had partaken of breakfast; he sat by the win- 
dow, a sheet of the Z%mes crumpled in his hand, 
a small, delicate, thin hand; he had a small, deli- 
cate, thin face, a sensitive face, which light hair 
parted at the centre, falling over the shoulders 
behind, reminded of Milton in his younger days; 
the eyes were clear blue, honest-speaking eyes that 
never lied; the skin fair and pink to the clean- 
shaven chin; the dark purple dressing-gown open 
at the throat bared a snowy skin; the fine linen 
beneath was confined by diamonds. Two little 
feet, incased in dainty slippers of purple, the work 
of his mother, were easily rested on an ottoman a 
servant had wheeled to the window, thoughtfully 
mindful of his beloved master’s comfort. Sir Kin- 
naird Dalton was not young, but the dazzling light- 
ness, which resembled a halo, conferred artificial 
youth. He had been waiting longer for the Sec- 
retary’s attendance than seemed consistent; a 
shade crossed the mirror. 

“Did you not tell Mr. Barnard I was waiting, 
Simmons ?” 

“T did, Sir Kinnaird.” The faithful fellow 
hesitated, and was conspicuously troubled. 

“What is it, tell me?” 

“Mr. Barnard said he would wait upon you 
when he had breakfasted; and he has just sent 
to Covent Garden for some mushrooms, concern- 
ing the cooking of which he has been lecturing 
M. Artaud this twenty minutes.” And with a 
look of unspeakable commiseration Simmons 
placed perfumes, the last novel, a tiny vase of 
lilies, and a few strawberries upon a malachite 
table beside his master. 

Sir Kinnaird seemed pained, but was too well- 
bred to betray further annoyance before the man. 

Simmons retired backward, closed the door 
with a gentleness suggestive of a sick-chamber, 
and hurried to the hall. Sir Kinnaird was hearty 
as a chamois-hunter, but Simmons imagined the 
insolence, as he termed it, of that upstart Sec- 
retary must exercise a prostrating effect upon 

-his paragon-tempered master, from whose lips 
he had never heard a harsh word. 

When his servant had gone, Sir Kinnaird arose 
from the indolent attitude, stood at his height, 
hands clasped behind, and looked forth beyond 
the flowers, beyond the patrician thoroughfare, 
over to where the scorched, charred grass formed 
the arena for a posse of unkempt children. His 
thoughts were not with these. ‘ How long, how 
long,” he murmured, “‘is this humiliation to con- 
tinue? Before my own servants even, insult upon 
insult, and I have not the power to crush this ser- 
pent. Ah, my fair lady mother, bitter, most bit- 
ter is the endurance for your good name!” 

He lounged to the opposite window; it opened 
to the garden at the back, where cunning garden- 
‘ers had made the best of the limited area: in the 
window a large glass case of fish and water-weed 

B 


17 


— the recess cool and shady by its deadened 
ight. 

“T shall be so glad to get away from town, and 
if I can secure this Devonshire estate Barnard 
tells me is in the market, I can there live quietly 
and more happily than here or in Paris, I dread 
meeting the eyes of people I know, lest they no- 
tice this galling espionage; I am afraid one of 
these times I shall do the fellow some mischief. 
I wonder as it is I can control my old Oxford 
pluck. Fortunately for the interests of decency 
and order, his cold, sarcastic eye always freezes 
me to the backbone, and puts a highly proper 
quencher on my warmth. Such very bad form, 
quarreling with one’s secretary; horrible !”” 

With the same insouciant grace Sir Kinnaird 
Dalton lounged back, shrugging his shoulders, 
resumed his restful position, drew a web-like 
handkerchief over his delicate waxen face, for 
there was a fly somewhere buzzing about, and 
went quietly off to sleep, twitching every now 
and then with memory.of his unpleasant facto- 
tum. A shaft of gleaming light stole through 
joining of the blinds straight to the tossed curls, 
as partial to alliance with the radiant things. 
Simmons came softly in, discovered the peaceful 
state of his master, gently drew the curtain lest 
the light in travelling should fall athwart the 
eyelids, smiling affectionately all the time, and 
receded as softly. 

Crossing the hall, he met with Hammond, Sir 
Kinnaird’s valet. This worthy had evidently 
something to communicate; he signaled to Sim- 
mons to accompany him to the housekeeper’s 
room, that lady being absent upon a shopping 
expedition. Hammond mysteriously closed the 
door, pulled down his waistcoat, elevated a tuft, 
and asked, in deeply sympathetic tones, 

“‘ How is our poor master, Mr. Simmons ?” 

“Well, as you ask me, Mr. Hammond, he’s 
very poorly indeed. Dear Sir Kinnaird’s quite 
overcome; gone off, in fact.” 

“Not fainted?” (aghast). 
surprised at nothing.” 

“‘ Asleep, Mr. Hammond; but it’s the sleep of 
the suffering.” 

“T wish Sir Kinnaird ’ud give us a fiver to do 
the deed. I'd pay for a halter out o’ my share, 
and dig a hole in the back garding; but Mr. Sec- 
retary’s got others interested in his welfare ’sides 
us. What d’ye think? Walking out with Maria 
last evening, I fancied a young chap was a-fol- 
lowing. Now there’s nothink more ungentleman- 
like; and just by Marble Arch I turned sharp, 
and: politely asked, ‘What are you sneaking aft- 
er, young man ?’ 

““¢One word with you, my good fellow,’ he said, 
hurriedly. 

““T ain’t a good fellow,’ I answered, just as 
hurriedly, for Maria was waiting, and you know 
how the lower orders crowd at that corner— 
‘leastways not after eight o’clock,’ 

“<T think you come from Sir Kinnaird Dalton’s ?’ 

“¢T think I do.’ 

“¢Well, I can put you in the way of earning a 
ten-pound note with very little trouble to yourself.’ 

“¢ Vive and learn!’ I answered; for I hold the 
best of us can’t know any too much. Then he 
proceeded to open the little business. He wants 
a close watch kept on this Secretary, and is pre- 
pared to pay handsomely for any reliable bits of 
information, or whatever else we can hand over.” 


“And yet I'd be 


18 


“Tisn’t the sort of business I'd care to have 
any thing to do with. Best keep clear, too, of 
Mr. Noel Barnard.” 

“ But if it assists Sir Kinnaird, Mr. Simmons ?” 
put the wily valet. 

“That certainly makes a difference.” 

“Tm to meet him, a week hence, at the same 
place.” 

“Tt’s always been a riddle to me what our 
master could have been thinking of when he 
took up with this Mr. Barnard.” 

““T suspect. there’s more in that, as in every 
thing else as goes on up stairs, than gentlemen 
of our propriety can understand. Ah, Mr. Sim- 
mons, it’s a hollow world, and if it wasn’t really 
to oblige the family, one like myself couldn’t 
stand it.” And so saying, the fine creature drew 
himself very erect. He had lived with a duke 
(he called it a juke), and baronets were very 
small game after that, even when possessed of 
Adonis curls, and a throat that turned the statu- 
ettes paler with envy. 

Full of his mission, Hammond walked quietly 
up the grand staircase until, Mr. Barnard’s pri- 
vate chamber reached, he, with considerable ef- 
fort, lowered his eye until upon a level with the 
key-hole. 


ee 


CHAPTER VI. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 


PiccaDILLy could scarcely contain a more com- 
plete contrast than that house afforded in those 
two men—the listless, elegant Dalton, and his 
massive, stolid, sardonic Secretary. 

Cold, gray eyes, a hard, long face, an inflexible 
mouth, and teeth that used to meet with an om- 
inous click; livid features, telling of considerable 
suffering, or study, or hardship, or what not that 
lines a face; all was hard, cold, cruel, yet withal 
intellectual. One glance convinced the observer 
this was no ordinary man, no vulgar, scheming 
genius of the Bohemian adventurer type, no rude 
dabbler in intrigue and craft, but a clever, learn- 
ed diplomatist, as free of grossness as of igno- 
rance, with extraordinary control and suppres- 
sion ; a contour of head whereon caution balanced 
skill, and a cast of expression which realized the 
conception of Nero that once set the patrons of 
the salon all agog with wonderment. 

Mr. Barnard was writing; but, as moved by a 
sudden thought, arose and opened the door—the 
receding back of Mr. Hammond in view. 

“ Hammond!” The man paused. ‘One word.” 
And the gentleman returned to his seat at the 
desk—a curious contrivance, made from his de- 
scription. 

Mr. Hammond entered, and puffed his breast 
pigeon-fashion, and as suggesting, “ Well, after 
all, you’re not my master !” 

« Be seated, Hammond; want a word with 
you.” 

“Thank ye, Sir; I never sits in the presence of 
my betters ;’ and Hammond looked dryly uncon- 
scious of the sarcasm. It was noticed by the 
Secretary, who, however, possessed the useful fac- 
ulty of never appearing to take or to notice any 
thing. 

‘* Hammond,” pursued the other, in a tone part- 
ly didactic, partly solemn, “I shall be sorry to 
send a bullet through that door—spoils the var- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


nish, makes a devil of a mess—but if you will, 
you know— However, that is not the point. Go- 
ing down to housekeeper’s room just now, to see 
what on earth the people are up to with my mush- 
rooms, I overheard your interesting gossip with 
Simmons. Don’t think I was listening, my good 
fellow—pay somebody a ten-pound note to do 
that for me—but it was unavoidable. Now I’m 
not put out about this, Hammond; every dog 
keeps to his scent; but I blame you very much 
for not asking more; each pound will improve 
that hotel you’ve an eye upon. Now, all in the 
way of business, may I offer you twenty pounds 
to give this enterprising stranger the information 
[ve jotted upon this paper, and to follow him 
up, at the distance, you understand, bringing me 
faithful word without making any one the wiser ? 
A clear thirty pounds, Mr. Hammond, eh ?” 

This was not said pressingly or as of any con- 
sequence beyond being all in the way of business, 
the speaker coolly docketing memoranda and pig- 
eon-holing notes. He did, certainly, look up once, 
but it was the look a great banker might bestow 
upon a small depositor considerably overdrawn. 

‘“‘T shall be proud to serve you, Mr. Barnard, 
You put it in the domestic way, and ’m»not sure, 
when one goes in for this work, but the more one 
does the better for one’s self.” 

“You will yet be an honor to your country, 
Mr. Hammond” (still methodically arranging his 
papers). ‘“‘Now walk down to the culinary de- 
partment, present my duty to that gourmand Ar- 
taud, and say if my breakfast be not served within 
ten minutes, I shall be under the necessity of ad- 
vising his earliest discharge. You understand 
me? Ah! close the door softly, please. Thanks!” 

The man went forth in a daze. Mr. Barnard 
looked through the morning letters. Punctual to 
time his repast was served. A light eater, al- 
though an epicure, he quickly left the table, 
changed dressing- gown for morning coat, and 
entered the pretty breakfast-room, where Sir Kin- 
naird Dalton still slept over his morning supple- 
ment. 

Mr. Barnard stood before the idle exquisite 
with a curious expression, and marked the small 
red mouth parting fora word. It fell— 

“Serpent!” 

The Secretary pushed a gilded footstool deftly 
with his foot, and awakened the sleeper without 
apparent effort of his own. 

‘Bless my soul! I’ve been to sleep. Would 
you remove that fly from the cream? That’s the 


worst of a fellow going to sleep; something sure , — 


to go wrong. Glad you have come; want to 
talk about that place you were telling me of. 
Private sale, I think ?” 

“ Private.” 

“ Torquay, if my memory serves me aright ?” 

“Torquay; pleasant property; Eagle Hall; do 
you know it ?” 

“What, Lionel Travers’s place ?” 

“The same.” 

““Never so astonished in my life. What is the 
cause? We were at Oxford together. I take an 
interest in poor old Lionel—cleverest, nicest fel- 
low of the University.” 

“Little gay, wasn’t he? Fond of cards ?” 

“Not in the least; quietest fellow out; went 
into the Church. Stay ! He didn’t go into the 
Church, through that marriage with Beresford 
Travers’s niece.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Ward, you mean.” 

“Beg pardon, I never can get over relation- 
ships; it was his ward. Awfully pretty, I re- 
member; used to see her in the Park, perched 
up by the side of old Travers, proud as a turkey- 
cock. Rather good, that tutor of Lionel’s falling 
in love with the girl—got kicked out, I faney— 
heard something of the sort.” 

“Unpleasant, if the person happened to be a 
gentleman.” Said with such caustic dryness, Sir 
Kinnaird shivered ever so slightly. 

“ Well, that girl was a sacred trust, and Beres- 
ford fully intended, I believe, to marry her him- 
self. It’s certain he loved her with more than a 
guardian’s love; and no wonder, seeing she had 
grown up under his careful nurture, and had no 
equal for either grace or beauty. Ah! Lionel 
and Ella were well matched.” And exhausted 
by so long a speech thus early in the morning, 
Sir Kinnaird sank back with, “ Kindly pass me 
that cushion; perhaps you’d place it at my 
back ?” : 

A pause, Mr. Barnard looking from the win- 
dow. Sir Kinnaird presently remembers— 

“But you were going to tell me how this oc- 
curred—the Eagle Hall estate. What does Lio- 
nel want to sell for?” 

“Your friend, Mr. Lionel Travers, is dead; 
suicide, it is thought. You are probably aware 
he was ruined—went for a hundred thou- 
sand.” 

“What a blow for Beresford! Although he 
never spoke to or saw his son after that affair 
about Ella, he loved him beyond forgetfulness. 
A crotchety, proud old fellow, he would keep to 
his word whatever it cost him. He swore he’d 
never see him again in this world, and he never 
did. I am sorry for the lovely widow and their 
child—they had a child. Whatever will become 
of them both ?” 

“Starved!” The doom was pronounced with 
hideous vindictiveness. 

“ Amiable as ever, Mr. Barnard!” And with 
intense disgust, Sir Kinnaird, plucking a camellia 
to pieces, blew the petals one by one from the 
window. 

‘“‘T have particular cause to be amiable in this 
instance. I don’t often undertake to enlighten 
your pin-head, dear Sir Kinnaird; permit me to 
deviate from a custom of reserve habitual and char- 
acteristic. The tutor you did me the honor to re- 
member a few minutes since happened to be your 
devoted servant. Mr. Lionel himself administered 
that undignified remonstrance, upon the appeal 
of the lady, who declared herself to have been in- 
sulted. He would listen to no explanation, and 
that fine old English gentleman, his father, had 
the dogs unloosed on that retreat of ignominy. I 
had time to forewarn the Squire of the loss I 
knew inevitable; to prophesy to Lionel ruin, dis- 
grace. Well, Sir Kinnaird, my words have come 
true. It was J who brought about the trouble 
you commiserate so deeply. This is the last 
night his wife and child will remain in their 
stately mansion, where at this moment they have 
a mattress and a broken pitcher, and two or three 
empty tea-cups; for every thing, even to the 
child’s wearing apparel, was seized by the one 
ereditor—myself! I bought up the debts; the 
estate didn’t cover; it was of no consequence, 
and Widow Travers turns out to-morrow. That 
is all, Sir Kinnaird, except that you purchase the 


19 


jestate of its present owner, and enter into pos- 


session forthwith. Your check-book.” 

Tt had all been said without raising of the 
voice above the cold, cruel, Jeffreys tone. The 
book was handed with the curtness of a mer- 
chant’s clerk. 

“Tf I purchase the estate, Mr. Barnard, it will 
not be at your bidding, but with the view of 
proving a friend to the wife and child of the 
man I loved even as a brother.” 

Mr. Barnard smiled grimly at that, but con- 
tented himself with opening the book at the cur- 
rent leaf, placing a tiny piece of glass and silver 
elegance between the perfume, lilies, and straw- 
berries, and a dainty ivory pen in attendance. 
Sir Kinnaird was very fastidious, with all his 
good sense; his innumerable properties must be 
the pink of perfection ; an ordinary wooden hold- 
er would have dismayed him; therefore the Sec- 
retary even walked the extreme length of the 
velvet pile to procure that slender piece of work 
for the wealthy baronet. 


—— NS Se 


CHAPTER VII. 
SEABOROUGH IN THE SEASON. 


A sricut little town, with a white face ever 
smiling, when the setting sun fell athwart its 
trim terraces especially, as it was doing at the 
time *the evening train arrived from London. 
Rather a crowded train, for Seaborough was vis- 
ited by many during the season, laying claim to 
being a popular place; and those who did come 
came in a legion. The first-class carriages were 
not overfull, perhaps, but the second and third 
were freely patronized. Bustling about with vi- 
olence, and that constituent the unkind call fussi- 
ness, a lady of very prepossessing appearance 
was worrying every porter she saw concerning a 
black bonnet-box which had not turned up, and 
which, she declared, should be found if the engine 
coal-hole was emptied! With her, little Rose, all 
uneasy and flushed by her mother’s eccentricities, 
and looking prettily embarrassed with every one 
gazing so admiringly at her. Mrs. Blake came 
here because unknown, because no tip-top people 
ever came; and, being a lady of infinite style, she 
could walk here with queenly dignity, as the Duch- 
ess of So-and-So did the King’s Road, Brighton, 
much to the envy of this good lady. Apartments 
in the Crescent had been retained by letter; they 
had been to the same house for years; and as 
soon as that bonnet-box came to light, the twen- 
ty-seven packages piled on the fly would move on 
to that commodious haven. The season had com- 
menced, this was the pioneer rush, and every body 
looked anticipatory. Big waves and duckings, 
sea-weed collecting and shell-finding, sands, min- 
strelsy, and delights of all sorts, were reflected in 
the sparkling, eager eyes. These did not wait 
upon the platform, while Mrs. Blake was poking 
at the engine’s internals with her umbrella, Rose 
imploring, porters explaining, the station-master 
remonstrating, but they jogged sturdily down the 
hill that led to the beach. 

The crowd had scattered. Last of them all 
was seen a pale-faced, slender youth, who with 
difficulty dragged himself along—delicate certain- 


ly, and no doubt suffering; a wan, colorless face, 


all pinched and haggard, but still fair to look 


20 


upon; flashing eyes, with quick, restless move- 
ment, as ever on the alert for ill; a convulsive 
clutching with the wasted hands, and that slow, 
toiling progress so indicative of weariness. 

The red glare on squares and rounds of glass, 
on the slope of conservatories, on the gilded vane 
of the new church, on the flint of the tower of 
the old, on the slant blue slates, on the white 
facade of the Atheneum and Assembly-rooms, 
on the bronze dolphin central of the genteel square 
—upon all the face of the nestling little town be- 
tween hills, the red glare of the sunset. And it 
seemed a mocking sort of light, after all, to our 


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‘ i AP ey CTE AAA, 5, 1 oR nd 
1 yd 3 \ £ USERS me c™é 
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ey 
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traveller, who leaned resting against a wall at the 
corner where roads divided, one leading down- 
ward the route to the new town—the genteel 
residences, the clean, bright lines of shops, the 
parade, the pier, the esplanade, the sands, and 
the Congregational church; while the road that 
stretched away up the higher ground conducted to 
the old, town—the colony of quaint, red-bricked, 
gabled dwellings that were good enough for the 
fathers ; the rows of odd little shops, the old well, 
the blacksmith’s forge, and the wheelwright’s ; 
Dr. Poppinton’s school, a dreary, large, ivy-cover- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ed building of historical date; and the venerable 
church, with its massive tower, standing like a 
bulwark of the faith, serenely unconscious of its 
symmetrical rival below-town. The youth rested 
hesitating, and watching the gradually lessening 
glow upon the picture. An old man coming along 
was moved to address the stranger, he looked so 
forlorn and poorly. 

‘‘Bee’st unwell, laddy ?” wiping his forehead, 
looking kindly and father-like on the youth. 

“T have been very ill, my friend. I am better 
now, thank God! London’s a sorry place for the 
sick and poor.” 


“AN OLD MAN COMING ALONG WAS MOVED TO ADDRESS THE STRANGER.” 


“ Ay, truly is it. My poor lad went yonder— 
thought he’d do; worked hard at his trade, too, 
he did; but he fell faint one summer, wasn’t up 
to the mark at his time of a mornin’, took to his 
bed later, but wouldn’t let the woman know my 
address—didn’t want to disturb me. So he died, 
and I all the time waiting through the summer 
and the autumn for his letter. All the flowers on 
his favorite trees blossomed and fell, and it never 
came; and in snow-time I had saved enough for 
the journey, and went to the woman where he’d 
lodged, and she just told me on the door-step— 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


never so much as asking me on the mat—how 
my boy had fallen low and got in arrears, and 
grown worser and worser, too low to eat, and 
how she’d ended matters by turning him out to 
die in somebody else’s room. I could learn no 
more, but I could guess the rest. Yes, it’s a 
sorry place, laddy. I’m glad for your father’s 
heart you’re out of it.” 

“JT have no father nor mother, old friend. It 
is as well, perhaps, as I should be slight com- 
fort.” 

The old man shook his head. 

“JT do assure ye I often feel as if, had I the 
very worst lad as was ever given up, I could rest 
content; but to be growing old with never a bit 
of kith nor kin to meet yer eyes sometimes, it’s 
that’s so hard. I seem to want it more now ’m 
feebler like.” 

“Tam quite as lonely; I am—friendless. You 
at least have neighbors whose kindly greeting 
meets your own, in whose eyes you daily see a 
little interest. I am without even that.” 

It was said so desolately, the old man’s features 
softened and his voice trembled. 

“Come, come, and so young; you should be 
all hope. What hast come here for, if it be not 
too bold a question ?” 

“J have heard there is some one staying here 
whom I would see unseen. Helped by his hand 
already, that hand would raise me if I came in 
its way. Yes, I must see him once again.”. 

“Ay, laddy, thou’rt so gentle, it. seems none 
could help being a friend to thee.” 

“ Could I afford the time to tell my story, fa- 
ther, *twould wring as many tears from you as I 
should shed. You’ve not lived to this honored 
age but to find the strange, tragic tale in many a 
life truly told. I want cheap lodgings while here ; 
can you advise me where to seek them? I was 
pausing, as usual, between two roads.” 

“This one leads to Old Town, where rooms are 
cheaper than below; but half a mile on is Sleper- 
ton village, and if ye could do with cottage com- 
fort, it’s cheaper still.” 

“Thanks, many thanks; that would suit me 
quite as well; my means are small, unfortunate- 
yi? ; ay” 

“ Ay, we ain’t. all blessed alike in the pocket! 
See some o’ the grand folk down there a-walking, 
showing o’ their feathers? You can go an’ see 
’em now, band’s a-playing ; I could tell ’em same 
Lord made us all. Oh, it’s a grand place is Sea- 
borough New Town, but give me the old place 
up among the trees where the good folks lie bur- 
ied, and none o’ them black-faced singers with 
banjoes comes a-disturbing of their rest. Maybe 
you'll feel interested in Sleperton: dost care for 
mysteries and such like baubles ?” 

The youth smiled, the question was so quaint. 

“Not much; why?” 

“The great house on the Green will interest 
you; full in your view, there are cottages all 
round the Green; a sight o’ people goes from 
Seaborough New Town to see the old Hall.” 

“ But what is it—a ruin ?” 

“Oh no, not yet, but soon will be, I trow. It 
has a story to it; not that there’s any truth in it, 
I dare say, but we poor old country folk must 
have our bit o’ gossip.”” And smiling kindly, the 
old man made for continuing his way, and Wal- 
ter Gordon was again alone. The little chat had 
refreshed his spirits, All seemed so quiet and 


21 


peaceful after the London turmoil, so sweet and 
fresh after the murky heat of the City, he already 
felt revived. Sleperton presently ; meantime he 
would reconnoitre. 

Taking the downward road, passing in succes- 
sion a public-house, a line of pretty dwellings, 
and a farm-yard, a shed whereon were pasted 
announcements of a flower show, a lecture, and a 
theatrical entertainment, sales of stock and plant, 
and a selling off of drapery, then coming to a 
stretch of market-garden, where the herbs and 
flowers sent forth an evening incense so grateful, 
the youth paused, leaned upon the fence, and en- 
joyed the cool, fresh fragrance. The glow had 
died to a gray, and the town was putting on its 
quiet evening shade. More people; the shops 
had closed,.and they of commerce had strolled 
out after work, man and maid, taking the coun- 
try way; they stared hard at Walter till he blush- 
ed again. It was the custom to stare at strangers 
in this quiet town, and a stranger of appearance 
like to this was not seen every evening. Past 
the church, still down hill, then three or four de- 
tached buildings of a better sort. One of them 
was entitled Sea-view Villa, although to catch the 
sea view you would have to climb the chimney. 
Then past the sexton’s, “ APARTMENTS” in one 
window, and “‘ PARTIES DECENTLY INTERRED” in the 
other; a small store for general ware; a private 
house, set back in a ghastly garden where shin- 
gle seemed at bowls with oyster shells, and mari- 
golds had spread like the measles ; a low-pitched 
place with stables in the rear; innumerable dogs 
at amateur coursing to the rout of quiet-minded 
fowls enjoying the strut before roost; ‘“ VETER- 
INARY SURGEON’’ was on the gate, and an ancient 
and tan-like smell redolent every where. Next 
came a baker’s; in the window a rakish-look- 
ing roll, a half-quartern or two, some bags of 
flour on drill, three bottles of sweets, dead flies, 
a black beetle, suspicious-looking cakes with red 
things stuck therein, tartlets of apparently prime- 
val origin, stale biscuits, and other confectionery ; 
and then—a young ladies’ seminary, with ‘“Sra- 
BorouGH ACADEMY” in large letters on a brass 
plate—this was the school that discomposed Dr. 
Poppinton’s young gentlemen; and next to this 
a corn, hay, seed, and coal merchant’s office. 
Here commenced the roadways proper of the 
town; that is to say, the water-carts went not 
beyond this point—those water-carts were a bap- 
tismal nuisance in Seaborough. The light was 
growing more sober, gas twinkled in dusky draw- 
ing-rooms, shrubs in the gardens became shad- 
owy of color, hotel halls were lighted up, the line 
of windows of the Athenzeum were all a-gleam, 
and patrons hurried up the steps. He had come 
to a region of well-paved streets, broad thorough- 
fares, the best shops, the square, the wide open- 
ing to the marine front. Right and left the fine 
houses of residents and visitors, two considerable 
hotels, boarding-houses, and those displaying the 
magic word “‘ ApaRTMENTS” in the slips of garden. 
Before it all a well-kept walk of sea sand and 
shell, turf with seats, shrubs, and a few flower 
beds; and upon this agreeable promenade, in the 
centre of which the town subscription band play- 
ed, the company walked up and down, chattering 
one to another, quizzing style and criticising ap- 
pearance, or lounged on the seats, listening to 
the music and watching the stars peep forth 
above the sea. 


22 


As Mrs. Blake’s dress swept the greensward, 
train some inches longer than any body else’s, 
with her little girl Rose as a foil, but more beau- 
tiful than all the promenade put together, every 
one looked over shoulder at the new-comer, won- 
dering what distinguished personage it could be; 
some few followed on trail—easy of accomplish- 
ing without offense—and Hannington’s robe ex- 
cited a just proportion of envy. The Visitor’s 
List would be out on the morrow, and curiosity 
might be satisfied, unless, unfortunately, it was 
some grand duchess preserving strict ¢ncognita. 
Or it might even be one of royal lineage—it had 
been rumored that the Prince of Wales would send 
his children to Seaborough for a quiet month. 
That lovely girl—they saw the features of the 
Queen in the little gold-encircled face. Perfectly 
aware of the commotion she was causing, having 
come on purpose, Mrs. Blake walked, with impe- 
rial carriage, head erect, Seaborough at foot. 
Why not? Joseph had money. Only the night 
before they had talked of retiring, and Mrs. Blake, 
poking a sharp nose out of the night-cap, men- 
tioned cream-colored ponies and bells without 
good-tempered Joseph kicking. 

No one was more annoyed than Mrs. Major 
Howard, who, by this distinguished advent, was 
dethroned. For a long time the military lady 
had held sovereign sway at Seaborough. She 
did keep a pony-chaise and tiger, she had the 
real original court presence, and when a girl she 
had received lessons in deportment. Papa was 
in a very good position, and mamma, had angleé 
for a knight at that time. The Major possessed 
a pretty house just off the Marine Parade. No 
one was quite certain about his income, or about 
the probability of the little bills being paid; but 
as the Major referred every body to the Duke of 
Cambridge, and as nobody in Seaborough quite 
knew how to approach that great person, the Ma- 
jor’s dignity and social importance were taken for 
granted, and very great court was paid to them. 
Mrs. Howard considered herself a lady of the first 
water, and her head tossed at the Blake entrée 
with ominous significance, as much as to say, 
“Some tradesman’s wife, Pll be bound!” Mrs. 
Major Howard did not believe so—the stranger 
was too en régle for that—but the words fitted. 
Major Howard walked beside his lady, composed 
and dignified, twirling a cane, as accustomed to 
give command, and as quite at ease in court or 
camp. Mrs. Howard’s “ Just look at the woman, 
Major!” provoked no descent from that broad 
frontage and Cesar-like mien ; a twinkle of pleas- 
antry across to his friend Sir Charles Neville, who 
walked by the side of the Major’s lady—that was 
all. But Sir Charles, who admired Mrs. Howard 
with a naughty Dumas order of admiration, look- 
ed reproachful, and gave it as his firm opinion 
there was nothing in the woman, and whatever 
the folks were staring at he couldn’t imagine—a 
verdict that raised the handsome young fop for 
the first time in the estimation of careful Mrs. 
Howard. 

Quite removed from these, observant alike of 
the Major’s party and of the fresh arrivals, was 
a lady of singular elegance, yet dressed with quiet 
good taste. She walked the lawn, in company 
with her son, without attracting any particular 
measure of attention: there was that upon her 
face, however, the thoughtful would have gazed 
twice and thrice upon without understanding, so 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


strange an expression it was at times. This was 
Mrs. Vincent, of whom more anon. She resided 
at The Cottage, Sleperton, near by the mysterious 
old Manor-house, called by Walter Gordon’s in- 
formant the Hall. Sleperton Manor, he rightly 
said, had a story of its own, a weird, ghastly sort 
of story—no ancient legend surrounded by an 
atmosphere of blue fire, but a chronicle of the 
day; and rumor said Mrs. Vincent was somehow 
mixed up with it. Anyway, she alone had the 
run of the deserted place, excepting always the 
steward, Reuben Smith, of the Manor Farm, who’ 
kept the keys. These two, Mrs. Vincent and Reu- 
ben Smith, were the worst of friends. When, 
soon after the Lord of the Manor disappeared 
from among men—gone to foreign parts, it was 
said—Reuben locked alike doors and gates, and 
evidently meant the place to keep so, he was one 
evening surprised to see their very quiet and lady- 
like neighbor emerge. An altercation ensued, 
which she closed abruptly by producing duplicate 
keys of the various entrances, and a Paris-dated 
letter from the owner, Lord Lindon, giving her- 
self and son permission, whenever agreeable, to 
visit the Manor-house, use the library, and any 
other of his possessions, at pleasure. This set- 
tled it, but at the same time shrouded it—the 
mystery had thickened. 

On this evening walk, among other of the com- 
pany studied by that quiet observer, Mrs. Vincent, 
young Mr. Gordon came in for his share of con- 
templation and speculation. The pale, wasted, 
delicate face, with its outline of melancholy beau- 
ty, was yetso full of intelligence and refinement, 
it became the haunting memory of all others. 
He sat far beyond track of the fashionables, hid- 
den by shrubs, apparently reading—a book was 
open, his face was down. 

While the events narrated were passing at one 
part, nearer the band were assembled the people 
who belong to the order that go right up to the 
wall at the Academy—buwtt at the pictures, as it 
were—and stare at conceptions four inches ahead 
on the magnifying principle. Similarly they must 
listen to the music, have one ear inside the trom- 
bone or none of it. 

Here were Harry Abbott, and ony Abbott's 
wife, and Harry Abbott’s girl, as pleasant a group 
as you well might see. Harry was stout and 
rosy-faced, farmer-like, kindly, humorsome, hos- 
pitable; it was all in that florid, good-natured 
face: the ‘shake of the hand was cordial, and 
conveyed a feeling of sincerity; the tone of the 
voice brimmed with laughter, honest, contented, 
and Saxon. 

Harry Abbott’s wife (she was always spoken 
of in that familiar fashion, never as Mrs. Harry 
Abbott) was a veritable fac-simile of Harry Ab- 
bott’s self—homely, kind, frank, and genuine. 
Their daughter had just left boarding-school, was 
a merry, boisterous, awkward lass, with sheep’s- 
eyes on Lorry Vincent, who was impervious as a 
prince. 

And here was Dr. Hunter, the leading practi- 
tioner of Seaborough, who walked the turf now 
and then to see who was ailing; a tall, pale man, 
given to poking one in the ribs and looking from 
habit at the lips, as though every tongue would 
hang forth at the mute interrogation. The doc- 
tor had a grudge against Seaborough—it was over- 
healthy, people didn’t ail as they ought, seeing 
they were born into this ailing world. Dr, Hunt- 


A MODERN 


er was skillful, the sphere was a contracted one, 
the parish professional did the lower orders, and 
was immensely popular; still, Dr. Hunter took all 
quietly, looked reproachfully at the robust, the 
well-shaped, the vigorous, and with equable as- 
surance stood on his dignity. If people were 
vulgar and gross, and not sufficiently well-bred 
to wear delicately, they must be pitied; it was 
certain they could not be helped. 

It is strange people never tire of walking up 
and down the spasmodic little reaches allotted 
them, never tire of the perpetual gossip about 
each other. The routine at this retired watering- 
place was similar to that of its rivals, except 
that, being of lesser degree, faces were known 
quicker and remarks the sooner exhausted ; it be- 
came difficult indeed to discover or invent note- 
lets of interest upon dress or appearance, and 
the only bones left for picking were the ante- 
cedents. Seaborough had picked at Mrs. Vin- 
cent until that charming lady was bare as a 
bleached skeleton, yet was Seaborough as mysti- 
fied as at the beginning; it could not disentangle 
that past history, the pre-widowhood. Had any 
body known the lamented Mr. Vincent? Not 
one of them. Elegant as were the appointments 
of The Cottage, had any body ever seen a por- 
trait at all to be construed into that of Lorry’s 
papa? Nobody. The lady lent books some- 
times: could recollection serve for a bold mascu- 
line hand, a bold masculine name? Only Lorry’s 
school-boy hangers. Had a male umbrella been 
observed in the stand? No; only the slight-built 
protection from the sun, black and gray and steel 
and shot, which Mrs. Vincent called her sun-shade. 
They were still busy at the bones—difficult to get 
at as those in the show caverns, but interspersed 
with occasional snatches at Mrs. Major Howard 
and others. Upon this evening, however, all 
Seaborough was to be paralyzed: a stranger was 
seen walking with Mrs. Vincent, and the most re- 
markable-looking stranger ever seen within the 
municipal bounds, talking earnestly, as was evi- 
dent ; no mere acquaintance-gossip ; and Seabor- 
ough kept an Argus eye upon the stranger. He 
might be the Emperor of somewhere, or he might 
be the nobody who is always to hand, but he was 
not by any means a fascinating person outward- 
ly, and Seaborough was excited: agitation that 
arrived at a climax when he was seen shaking 
hands with Sir Charles Neville, was heard intro- 
duced to Mrs. Major Howard and the Major, as— 

“My friend, Mr. Noel Barnard !” 


eee * cereal 


CHAPTER VIII. 
THE TANGLED DIPLOMACY THICKENS. 


BereEsrorD TRAVERS, Esq., and Mr. Herbert 
Garston. 

An elderly handsome man, portly, with remark- 
ably fine head, pleasant features, an open, gener- 
ous expression, white hair arranged with consid- 
erable care, through which he often passes a 
very white, somewhat large, hand, whereon an 
enormous diamond set in slender gold seems to 
have an easy time of it. Attire faultless, so 
black as to dazzle; a white cravat, spotless wrist- 
bands, and black-studded front, over which lux- 
uriantly descended the silver beard to the vest. 
This was the only living representative of the 


 eeeEEEE————————— 
ee ee ee 


MINISTER. 23 


houses of Beresford and Travers, the first the 
most ancient of patrician families, the latter of 
more modern origin but of great wealth. 

Hardly less prepossessing in appearance, but 
altogether cultivating a négligé style that was an 
agreeable blending of the artist-tourist and the 
gentleman - sportsman, Herbert Garston, friend 
and protégé of this gentleman of the old school, 
was a study upon which the eye might well de- 
light to rest—frank and candid, and possessed of 
a rough-and-ready manly dignity that invited 
confidence and assured of honor. 

These are talking upon important business at 
the moment we intrude, and exigencies of our 
story demand our listening for a time. Scene: 
an old-fashioned drawing-room in the St. James’s 
Street residence of Mr. Travers. 

“But is your information reliable, my dear 
Garston ?” 

“Quite, Sir. The man is a second Nero. I 
believe there is scarcely any length to which he 
would not go in furtherance of his revenge, his 
malice, and his ambition. I have no moral doubt 
that, indirectly, he encompassed your son with 
difficulty, and brought about the sad catas- 
trophe.” 

Mr. Travers passed his hand over the eyes that 
for an instant became clouded. 

‘“‘T had no conception such a character exist- 
ed outside a romance, or off the melodramatic 
stage.” 

“Ah! he’s not of that order. Why, this fel- 
low banks at the London and Westminster, and 
is equable as a general! I verily believe. he 
looks upon the world as one vast strategy ground. 
He’s so infernally like a jack-in-the-box—excuse 
warmth—he seems starting up in all parts of the 
island at once, he quite undoes all preconceived 
and orthodox notions of the villain proper. I’m 
no sooner on his trail in one county than he ap- 
pears in another with the rapidity of the devil on 
two sticks. I shall soon begin to think he keeps 
a reserve of steam-engines and packets.” 

Mr. Travers smiled at the bluntness of his at- 
tached friend, whom he had known from boy- 
hood, and ever the same faithful, impetuous, 
stubborn, hot-headed piece of honesty. Herbert 
Garston had sworn to unearth this fox, in the in- 
terests of his poor dead comrade in Art and Let- 
ters, upon whose honored name a stigma rested; 
in the interests of his beloved benefactor, the 
patron and encourager of his every endeavor. 
Not in a dependent point of view; to set which 
delicate matter right once for all it may be dis- 
closed that Herbert Garston was the only son of 
a wealthy widow. 

“We never noticed any thing particularly 
vicious about the man; a little sombre, perhaps, 
sometimes ; and I think poor Lionel did once make 
the remark that occasionally, when reading with 
him, he wore a gloomy expression, such as he 
fancied Aram might have worn. Apart from this 
he was always reserved, quiet, thoughtful, and 
gentlemanly.” 

“Yes, that is precisely his aggravating point; 
he has the manners of a Roman emperor united 
to the business talent of a City merchant, the 
cleverness of a barrister, the subtle cunning of 
the worst old fox overrunning your estate. But 
I think I’ve got him—yes, I think I’ve got him.” 

Mr. Garston’s hazel eyes twinkled and blinked 
with the gratification of a man who has some- 


24 


thing to communicate he has been keeping in 
reserve. The big diamond flashed with sym- 
pathy, and Mr. Travers drew his chair closer, 
waiting without speaking, and with eager, rest- 
less expression, as dreading something unpleas- 
ant. Mr. Travers objected to any thing unpleas- 
ant upon principle; any thing that disarranged 
the reposeful grace of his years and position. 

“JT have added one of Sir Kinnaird Dalton’s 
men to my staff of auxiliaries.” 

“A good stroke that.” Garston nodded com- 
placently. 

““T don’t like the business, but it’s no use em- 
ploying clean tools for dirty work. If this man 
could be touched by the law, we would let it take 
him off our hands; but he is so deucedly clever 
no law can touch him. Prove him on the very 
square inches of a crime, he would prove himself 
to have been two hundred miles removed at the 
time, and that is a feat in tactics we can’t get 
over.” 

“‘T trust poor Ella is placed above the effects 
of his machinations, and that she has well con- 
sidered the proposals of my letter.” 

“To provide for her child—” 

“Removed altogether from her care, and placed 
absolutely and entirely under my own. I would 
derive happiness from this proposition, of which 
its mother deprived me.” 

Very quiveringly the old gentleman thus al- 
luded to the blow that had shattered the idealism 
of his home. 

“ You also make provision for—for Mrs. Trav- 
ers. Am I correct, Sir?” 

“Quite, my dear boy. Ihave suggested—only 
suggested, for she is delicately sensitive, poor 
thing !—that I should regard it quite in the light 
of a sacred duty, and not as placing her under 
any obligation, if she would allow me to supply 
her with two hundred pounds per annum, merely 
for immediate calls, of which there are so many 
in life.” 

‘“‘ And you still keep to your determination not 
to see her?” 

“ Nothing can ever alter that.” 

“Tt is the only thing I can not reconcile with 
| your nobility, your goodness. Forgive me.’ 

“Well as you know me, Herbert, you can have 
little sympathy with myself i in that trouble; you 
can not realize the whole experience. But this is 
not for discussion. I don’t know how we wan- 
dered on the theme. You were speaking of—” 

“Yet a word—tell you why in an instant— 
would you have the little girl at the Park ?” 

“No; I’ve arranged with the Percivals. You 
know them. Highly respectable and superior 
people; they rent my largest farm; have a son 
in town—writes, I believe. Mrs. Percival will act 
like a mother with the little one, whom I shall 
see at intervals. Why did you ask? No conse- 
quence, you know; only thought you might 
have a motive.” 

“And so I have. Noel Barnard has been seen 
in the neighborhood again.” 

The diamond flashed ominously. Mr. Travers 
arose, walked impatiently te the window, looked 
out on the dull street—“ More wet, I think,” 
and returned to the recesses of fragrant leather. 

“T was going to say that was bad news; but I 
don’t really know that it need trouble us in the 
least.” 

“ve got so in the habit of looking for mis- 


liest under heaven. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


chief following any visit Mr. Barnard favors one 
with, that I look on trouble as a natural conse- 
quence.” 

‘‘ Did you intend to suggest at the outset that you 
had ascertained any thing of his antecedents ?” 

“T did. He has been married. At that time 
he was in India—” 

“India ?” 

“He seems to have been half over the globe. 
I find his trail in both hemispheres. And he had 
one child—a girl—although what became of her 
I have been unable to trace.” 

“Well, this is certainly fresh. I confess you 
have surprised me.’ 

‘“‘Next time I call, I hope to have more to tell 
you. If my Piccadilly informant be faithful, I 
ought to make progress.” 

Mr. Travers arose, as indicating the interview 
was at an end. 

“You will lunch with me; carriage at three 
for the Row ?” 

“Thank you very much. I promised to be in 
Harley Street, to play companion to my mother, 
who is at present without that necessary adjunct 
to her household.” 

““Good! Never fail in attendance upon your 
mother ; there can be no worthier, Please tender 
my best respects. Look in any evening agree- 
able for our quiet duel at chess. So glad yours is 
not a club taste, which wars with the domestic.” 

After his young friend’s departure (we call 
Mr. Garston young comparatively; in years he 
was about thirty), the gentleman indulged a brief 
soliloquy : 

“The dear fellow is plunging heart and soul 
into this unthankful work. It was no ordinary 
friendship between the boys, and—and—aithough 
neither word nor hint ever warranted the assump- 
tion, I believe Herbert liked poor Ella, but for 
honor checked the sentiment. If so, this ener- 
getic quest may not be as disinterested as appears. 
Verily I may not flatter my foolish years by sup- 
posing a manly young fellow is going to dance 
on service for my advantage, with never thought 
of reward other than the friendship, nay, love, of 
an old man who would have been proud of a son 
like this. Not to injure my lad by the thought. 
Alas! he is removed now from any injury cold- 
ness can inflict.” 

And what a beautiful smile, paternal and be- 
nevolent, was upon the Squire’s face as he saw a 
happy time ahead, when his fairy-like grandchild 
would flit through the fields and woods, bringing 
garlands to enwreath his horse’s neck! Her feet 
should patter over the old polished boards where 
her mother’s were wont to beat music, and all the 
associations of the elder Ella, that to this day 
were bleeding wounds, would be healed by this 
newer charm, that must combine the lovely graces 
of the two he had most loved, his son and ward; 
this, this should bring back smiles, and laughter, 
and sunshine, and glad music to the great draw- 
ing-rooms at Beresford Court; this should renew 
his interest in life, revive old love, replant sweet 
dreams that blossomed once—the purest, love- 
And he closed his eyes, and 
wove of shreds of memories, lingering charms 
of his boy and his girl, a creation small and deli- 
cately fair, with graces many as the fawn’s, and 
a young heart full of love that must centre about 
himself. But he would be cautious, not see too 
much of her, not allow himself to become too fond 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


of her. He had done so once, and had learned 
the sharp lesson of idol-worship, and would never 
do so again—never again. 

Later, in the Park, he met Mr. Noel Barnard 
superbly mounted. That personage raised his 
hat with the air of a prince, and his most fasci- 
nating smile. The old gentleman coldly acknowl- 
edged the salutation—he had too fine breeding 
to ignore it altogether. 

The Duke of Huntingtowers had his team in 
the Park that afternoon, and pulled up for a word 
with Mr. Beresford Travers ; their estates in Hert- 
fordshire joined, and both had property about 
St. Alban’s. This had produced a neighborliness. 

“ By-the-bye”—after the greetings and usual 
three- minutes’ gossip—‘‘ Cousin Dalton has 
bought that place of your poor son’s in Devon- 
shire. Was told of it but ten.minutes ago.” 

Mr. Travers stooped, even to the girth, which he 
tested with his hand, and then raising his head, 
with quiet and pleasant but slightly flushed face, 
he remarked, 

“This is quick work, my lord; I was unaware 
of it.” 

“It’s an awfully go-ahead age. 
rather a bolter here.” 


Ta! ta! Dve 


——_a———. 


CHAPTER IX. 
THE LAST NIGHT IN THE OLD HOME. 


In the twilight’s soft and solemn hour, by the 
open window, looking upon the pleasure-wilder- 
ness of flowers and trees, and the far, rich tract, 
hill-girt, sea-bordered. Too soon the familiar 
landmarks were becoming shadowy and dim—less 
color, less form, with the tranquil outspreading 
of the mists, the silent march of the factions of 
the kingdom of gloom. 

A star here and there, lights twinkling upon the 
hills, an after-glow upon the waves that dallied 
with the kiss until dead on the imperial bosom. 

A cold wind astir, rattling dry twigs against 
the window-pane, like invisible ones tapping for 
admission, and rustling of dry and withered leaves 
about the garden, bringing thoughts of that fa- 
miliar hymn telling of decay. 

The woman by the window shivered, chilled to 
the heart, tears coursing the pale cheeks, sobs 
shaking the slight form, moans broken upon the 
lips not long since wreathed about with smiles. 

With arms clasped round her child, kneeling 
beside her trying to comfort; cold and as deso- 
late. 

Sad gray seemed tinting all the well-loved 
scene; they had never noticed it as on this even- 
ing. Sea, sky, earth, growing more dim and hue- 
less every instant. They would have had that 
gold and roseate last a little longer—with it de- 
parted the warmth of heart, the smile upon the 
face of their fair town. 

They had no kind neighborly one to breathe a 
word of solace, people had long forgotten the ex- 
istence of such very unfortunate folks, and she 
had no reward whereby to retain the sympathy of 
professional comforters ; therefore had she been 
alone in her grief, forsaken in her trouble, utterly 
deserted. 

Stay! That child! Words—frail, wingéd 
things, ineloquent—can not tell the comfort of 
her child. That small presence, so wonderfully 


25 


made, slight and slender, of small account by laws 
that govern physics, yet had helped to fill the ach- 
ing void of that dreaded loss—the hardest trouble 
a sensitive gentlewoman can ever know—the loss 
of home. She had been hugging this to her heart 
and soul, and thinking she could bear it so this 
were left; and now the ordeal was approaching, 
and stern necessity, unsatisfied, claimed the dar- 
ling also. 

It was a blank, horrible alternative. She had 
besieged Heaven for strength to do the thing re- 
quired of her, to put her sweet one far from her, 
and struggle and fight alone, nor man, nor wom- 
an, nor child, to help on by the tenderness of 
company. 

How beautiful was every object upon which the 
eye rested! But twelve years’ endearing associ- 
ation, yet her very life seemed linked to these 
treasures the stately lady-mother of her husband 
had held as dear, and all to pass to the unfeeling 
hand of the stranger, who would alter and destroy 
until the place that knew her would know her no 
more. For romantic ideas of working, working, 
working, until Lionel’s name and fame were clear- 
ed, of purchasing again his cherished home, of 
passing here the remainder of her days—these 
Utopian dreams had flitted; but iron sense had 
brought iconoclasm to mind, and she experienced 
the hard truth that the sacred precincts, profaned 
by the stranger, were never the same again. 

She reasoned with herself, poor little soul, and. 
calculated in this manner: supposing she obtain- 
ed a situation, and put by the two hundred pounds 
mentioned in her death-warrant—for so it seem- 
ed to her—still, it would take years to pay off 
her poor husband’s bills (set down within some 
hundred thousand pounds), let alone repurchase 
of the home. 

And if she refused to give up her child, she 
would be poorer than the vagrants, more ill-fated 
than the houseless, and mother and child worn 
and worse for suffering and denials. They had 
been accustomed to every luxury under the sun 
(he was no niggard, dead Lionel), and they could 
not take to dry, hard fare upon the instant; the 
course of deprivation had so weakened and sub- 
dued, even suffering lost half the sting ofits poison 
fang, so benumbed were the faculties by natural 
pain. To see the child grow weaker day by day 
would be maddening, would be criminal, with 
such an offer open as had been submitted by the 
friend and guardian for whom she experienced 
the same reverent gratitude and love as had ani- 
mated her heart when first living under his care. 
The love that guardian had no longer concealed 
after the blow had fallen—but which punctilious 
and too nice a sense of honor had constrained him 
to disguise so long—had been as great surprise 
to heras Lionel. Neither had suspected it, or per- 
haps their reverent affection would have made 
them root out that which would then have seem- 
ed a guilty, selfish passion. 

Despite her sorrows she was passing fair, and 
these two seemed sisters rather than mother and 
daughter. As for the child—an apple blossom, 
a bouquet of snow-flakes, spray of the sea—to 
what not that is exquisite shall she be likened ? 

The deep auburn of the mother’s luxuriant hair, 
unconfined, strayed lovingly with the clear gold of 
the child’s, lustrous even by that light. 

The fields and orchards, gardens and groves, 
sent forth the fragrance of night sweeter than it 


26 


had ever seemed, more odorous than perfumes by 
dim altars in Eastern churches. 

It was a weirdly sweet time: sad, bitter, filled 
with dead pain, the gloaming stealing something 
every minute; yet even as it faded, the evening 
star, growing brighter, fascinated like the jewel- 
eye of the fable. 

Terraces, statues, fountains, paled and grew 
gray, then draped with shadow, until they seem- 
ed all hung about with mourning. And surely 
some one was hanging those trees with a pall— 
and it was not so long since mother and child 
had swung laughingly there to music, and rose- 
showers thrown by a man’s strong hand. 

That chain of mournful memories, regrets, la- 
ments, dread recollections, would obtrude and 
overrun even her later griefs. And the clasp of 
the little warm hand, the hasty, anguished 
glimpses of those eyes where tears were bravely 
checked, the voice that was strung to tune com- 
fort, but seeming to falter with pain, it was the 
lone, waste, unutterably tried hour, the agony of 
a double parting ; and words can not describe the 
horror of the desolation in view. 

“Mamma, dear, do not tremble so; let me close 
the window. Why, you are still crying! Pray 
do not cry; all will come right. See, there’s the 
star of Hope; we shall yet be happy, we shall be 
together, and God will watch over us. I don’t 
mind any thing while I have you, mamma. Let 
me kiss the tears away. Nay, I will sit upon 
your knee, and nestle my head here as I used; 
why not, dear mother? If we are poor, we but 
cling the closer; it will bring us nearer, this ugly 
poverty you dread so. Oh! don’t do that; so 
many who are poor are loving, they’ve nothing 
else to live for. Smile on me, mother dear; it is 
so long since a smile was like light on your beau- 
tiful face. I don’t care a bit, if you will only try 
to stop crying; you are sobbing so dreadfully. 
See, I draw your lips down to mine, and will keep 
them here until you leave off crying. Why, we’re 
through the worst, and I—little I—saw them take 
my doll’s house and the pretty dressed things, and 
my puzzles and books, all that you and papa gave 
tome, and Inevershedatear! The man with the 
big dirty hands said he had a lass they’d do for, 
and I have had many a pleasant time with them, 
and wouldn’t be so selfish as to say him nay, poor 
man. And our gilt and white chairs, why, mam- 
ma, we never used to sit in them. The piano I 
couldn’t bear to play, and your Berlin and silk 
work isn’t half so nice and useful as good strong 
calico. If our beds are gone, we shall find some 
one who will lend us another, and now, you know, 
dear, we shall always sleep together; if the bed’s 
hard, the more healthy ; poor papa often said so. 
And don’t you remember when at the University 
he always slept onthe mattress in preference? It 
will be a new life to us, but I shall like it. I al- 
ways did wish for a gypsy life, didn’t I, dear? <A 
little cart and a cottage, some chickens and a 
shaggy dog, plenty of blackberries, and no fear 
of spoiling one’s frock. Cheer up, mamma; I 
for one am longing for the morning.” 

A mere child! The talk is not to be weighed 
and criticised; it was said to comfort. That 
nursling had turned stronger of the two; bird-like 
sweetheart of the dead, could the man’s fond ears 
have heard! 

Suddenly, quiveringly alert, the mother raised 
ears, listened, strained eyes ; all the garden swart 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


and dusk, dark shadows on places where they had 
walked their last. Her nervously susceptible 
hearing had detected a footstep upon gravel, upon 
dry grass, upon leaves ; soft, stealthy, receding 
from the bower of Virginia creeper near their 
window. 

She closed this, pressed the child frantically to 
herheart. The drawing-room was unutterably des- 
olate now, with cruel shadows lurking, and flit- 
ting of spectral things that trooped forth to mock 
and gibe at the friendless. 

“Thanks, pretty; it is good of you to try and 
comfort poor mamma. Oh, my darling, I am so 
wretched, so very wretched !” . 

It was a wail wrung from the bleeding heart, 
an awful moan of despair at its utmost extremity. 


ee 


CHAPTER X. 
A MYSTERIOUS GIFT. 


THEY were both timorous now that night had 
set in, alone in the desecrated house, far re- 
moved from any other habitation. 

““Come, dear, we will not stay here; let us bolt 
the door and go up stairs.” 

Little Ella was naturally as nervous as a mouse, 
but she plucked her courage by the ears and 
made it lead; she even essayed a skip, but that 
broke short, it made such an unearthly sound on 
the floor of the empty room. 

A gust of cold, dusty wind shot in at the door 
as she opened it, and went scouring round the 
place like the manes of an old char-woman. 

The great hall with its two pillars looked se- 
pulchral and ghostly, and the patter of their feet 
upon the stone echoed away with quavering mon- 
otone, like footfalls in the ghoul-haunted temples ° 
of India. 

There was not even a rug to break the shiver- 
ing glide over the white vastness that chilled as 
a polar plain. 

The dull thud of the bolt and gibbet rattle of 
the chain filled the space with a thunderous din 
that caused them to leap with terror; it died 
away in time, crept out by the rear offices, mut- 
tering and grumbling. 

Four large doors, a fleck of light from over 
the entrance shimmering on their knobs and pol- 
ished panels. 

Hand in hand—neither telling the other how 
tremulously—they crossed to the foot of the 
great stairs. Half-way up, a window of violet 
and green, yellow and blue, disposed an uncertain 
ghastliness, and turned their wan faces yet more 
livid and deathly. 

She could recall times when these stairs were 
the ascent of a pageant of color, when her guests 
had trailed their sumptuous robing and taken 
lustre from the glass by gleaming of gems. 
Courtly men, stately dames, they had entertained 
in princely fashion, not one of whom would now 
pass her in a street while another thoroughfare 
was open. Society! 

Above this a corridor, a line of guest-cham- 
bers, their own private apartments, and the tiny, 
nest-like boudoir apportioned to her daughter’s 
use. 

Here she would pass the still hours of that 
painful vigil, longing for the dawn. She could 
not sleep, she knew well; but, if possible, the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


child should do so while she watched protect- 
ingly. | 

It was only a mattress from a servants’ room 
which the brutal mercy of the broker had spared 
for their comfort, upon hearing they would re- 
main over the night. 

Stripped boards, bared walls, shreds and chips 
of lost treasures that had made the chamber 
beautiful. Damp air was floating in at the lat- 
tice sorrow had caused to be neglected for the 
first time. Hideous hoof-prints where the vulgar 
had trodden, grimy and reeking of stables. Shiv- 
ered glass of the bird-cage where the wretches 
had tossed her pet to its freedom—when a thin 
ridge of blood rose to the child’s lips, but no 
moan or movement, other than warmer pressure 
of the hand she had held to her strong, brave 
heart. The mother shuddered upon returning to 
the scene of that horrible trial. 

“Tet me sit up with you, mamma, dear; I’m 
not in the least sleepy to-night.” 

“No, my darling, do you get your rest. First 
let me hear your prayers’—said with choking, 
for it would be the last time. She closed the 
door, the keys had been removed; her tottering 
limbs scarcely supported their burden. 

“Now, darling.” The child fell at those knees 
where she had knelt so often, although there had 
been nights—grand party nights—when this lady 
could not spare the time (she recalled each one 
thus given to her heartless visitors when her 
child and her God had been set aside, failing con- 
venience—as if Society would make allowance 
for a young Charch of England mother’s feel- 
ings and obligations), when the little one had 
been reduced to the fidgety nurse-maid alterna- 
tive, with hasty interruption midway of the sweet 
prayer: ‘Come, Miss Ella, make haste!” or a 
plucking at the night dress, and—“ Don’t be all 
night, if you please, miss!” Grooms were waiting 
in the kitchen, and High Life below stairs could 
scarcely expect my lady’s maid to dilly - dally 
about while my lady’s child said her prayers. 
Society hasn’t come to that either. 

She said all the little prayer, and ‘‘ God bless 
dear mamma and papa,” in her sad thoughtfulness 
forgetting, ““and make me a good girl;” then the 
simple hymn, said since she had stood no higher 
than the lilies by the garden gate. 

Then without a word, rising from her knees, 
she kissed her mother, put off her frock, and crept 
upon the uninviting couch stretched on the floor. 

Graceful as some reclining figure in Athenian 
studio, the lady leaned back upon her elbow, took 
the small hand, bent over it, and for many min- 
utes thus remained with lips sealing the wondrous 
love. - 

There was but little light, sufficient, however, to 
disclose the mournful grace of that pathetic pic- 
ture, had any one been there to see. 

All upon the impulse, unable to control herself 
any longer, the lady raised her head, looked little 
one in the eyes—swift, it was heart-lightning— 
and in a breath, a gasp, questioned her almost 
hoarsely : 

“Could my Ella bear her mamma to leave her ? 
Would you like to visit some one who would be 
very kind, where you would have dresses and 
presents good as those you have lost, and a beau- 
tiful garden to play in? A beautiful garden,” 
added the ward of those happy days, recalling its 
devious, pleasant paths. 


27 


“T would not like to go any where without 
you, mamma; and what’s more, J won't /” 

The bare supposition was an outrage, and Ella 
resented it accordingly, and with more emphasis 
than it was her custom to display. 

A smile, the first that day, broke upon the lady’s 
features, yet an embarrassed, hesitating smile. 
How was this to be answered ? 

“But if I wished it, Ella?” 

“If you were placed the same,or so that I 
could not help you, and should not be of use any 
longer, I would. ¢ry to obey your wishes; it was 
papa’s last word to me—‘ Always do as mamma 
wishes you, my dear little girl.’ ” 

Tears were by this time filling the child’s eyes ; 
she kept them well from discovery by turning 
upon her side, as though tired. She was concoct- 
ing an innocent scheme to assume sleep, thinking 
her mother might then snatch a little rest. 

‘“‘ And you would not forget your prayers each 
night, or to pray for dear mamma; you would 
not forget me, Ella ?” she asked, breathlessly. 

“Forget you ?”’ murmured the child, reproach- 
fully. 

“Not think so much of kind, fresh faces that 
mine would grow less remembered ?” 

“No! Not if I did not see you until I was 
grown up, and came to live with you again for- 
ever! I am going to sleep now, ma, dear; kiss 
me.”’ 

She swooped as a leopardess, holding her 
whelp in peril, swoops upon her crouching young ; 
she clung to her fiercely, and spent the fury of 
her love upon that long embrace. 

““Good-night !’ And she repeated, while the 
child settled down to her pretended slumber, 
“Good-night! And dream of guardian angels, 
darling !” 

After that the room was strangely hushed, and 
the creakings of boards and. attendant night 
sounds echoed the hollowness rampant every 
where. <A lonely, unaccompanied night in a large, 
unfurnished house, isolated of site, encircled by 
grim firs, none living knowing of one’s presence 
there, must be one of the most dispiriting watches 
man or woman can pass. 

It was not without its terrifying influences upon 
this delicate lady, who had always been used to 
plenty of light and brilliance, warmth and com- 
panionship. 

She started at the gentle course of mice within 
the wainscot; and the flapping of bats’ wings 
against the window-pane affrighted the gaze bent 
on the star of hope. 

The hour must be getting late. She had nei- 
ther watch nor clock left whereby to tell, but she 
guessed by the circled hills where lights had all 
disappeared, and only that cold and stately star 
was left to bear her company. And the bats kept 
coming in the way of that. 

Breathing of the child was heavier. The worn- 
out cherub, faint with hunger, wearied beyond 
measure, must have passed to sleep, to her pure 
dreaming of the angels. 

Again, for the second time, the woman fancied 
she detected the sound of a footstep, and this 
seemed outside the door, pausing in the corridor 
at that spot. In mortal fear she recoiled as her 
glance wowld wander in that direction, and she 
tried to reason herself out of such fancies, and 
moved gently from the bed, that she might set 
these fears at rest. She quickly advanced to the 


28 


door, with some trepidation opened it, and stood 
out upon the landing. Nothing was to be seen, 
and she was about returning to the room when 
she remembered that, upon closing the window 
at which they had been sitting, she had failed to 
clasp the latch. She would hurriedly descend to 
make all quite safe, and she softly closed the 
door, and as softly ran down stairs. 

Now thoughtful Miss Ella, who had been doing 
a cat-sleep, was quite unprepared for this, and lay 
there panting in a pretty fear. To be all alone 
up stairs in existing circumstances was a fate she 
had never contemplated in her worst dread and 
most fearful expectancies. It was so dark, she 
scarcely dared open her eyes; so still, she scarce- 
ly dared breathe. 
her feverish terror, the hot, suffocating minutes 
seemed hours, and the horror sat heavy as a night- 
mare, when suddenly her door re-opened, a muf- 
fled, shadowy something entered, groped for her 
bed, knelt, stooped its head, panting, with short 
breath and burning lips, and alighted with a swift, 
soft, maddening kiss upon the bud-like mouth it 
seemed as though it would consume: the child 
all the time still as though sleeping, but really 
benumbed by fear—not supernatural fear, but 
that which dreads the unknown danger coming 
with robbers and other midnight visitors, stock 
threats of stupid maids. Scarcely an instant did 
it stay, but leaving an envelope beside the child, 
departed ; and she was wonderingly wide awake, 
staring at the door. 

While this proceeded above, that which befell 
Mrs. Travers remains to be related. It was more 
of a task than she had anticipated, or rather she 
had given it such bare thought; but at the foot 
of the stairs her courage sank. She looked for 
her star, violet or green, yellow or blue, what mat- 
ter so it be there? it was clouded. The darkness 
was more dense; no light now from above the 
door; each chamber black as the entrance to a 
tomb; and the wind howling without, rattling 
within, until the place seemed overrun by skele- 
ton feet. 

Guitar and harp had quivered in these rooms 
where the wolfish blasts were now on chase. 

She hurried past, gained the drawing-room ; 
the window was open; a man was stepping from 
the casement to the bed of flowers below. 

Shrinking back, she caught sight of the dread 
face while he turned to close the window. 

It was the face of her foe—Noel Barnard. 

He had not seen her. He hastened with long 
strides across the garden, out by a little gate giv- 
ing egress to a quiet Devon lane, and appeared as 
though looking for some one who might be con- 
cealed within the grounds. She noted the action 
as singular. What could induce him to take that 
unfrequented way—a way that conducted to the 
shore ? 

She quickly latched the window, and almost 
flew up stairs to her child, so alarmed was she at 
the presence of that man. 

The child uttered a cry of delight, and when 
her mother had closed the door and drawn up 
their poor bed against it, the only barricade, she 
told the strange incident which had occurred dur- 
ing her absence. 

Mrs. Travers was aghast. Half afraid, she took 
the contents of the envelope to the window, and 
read even by that light the word “Frirry” very 
large upon two crisp notes, Bank of England. 


She was at the very height of. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


She could not speak, but staggered to the bed, 
and now her strength gave way; she fell thereon, 
and still without one word. 

Had she fainted, or what was this? With a 
cry of terror, the child, clinging and embracing, 
implored for but one word—but one! And all 
was still, save for the dirge-like, strangled echo 
of her appeal. Still, deadly still, and only that 
little girl! Alone, with this new and surpassing 
misery, and all the host of fears, and all the 
weight of her own and this other’s sorrow, and 
the faint, deadly weariness and sickness of her 
own heart. 

Beat against the panes, ye bats; coil, obscene 
shades, within the corners; shriek, ravenous 
winds, in the outer courts; gleam on her lovely 
head, coward lightning of the summer night; 
hoot, owls, on the funereal pines; fall, rain-drops, 
like taps upon coffin lids; peal above her, thun- 
ders of darkness; stretch forth lank talons, spec- 
tres and goblins; dart grisly fangs, glide on her, 
phantoms! Hound forth ye all, for ’tis a deli- 
cate girl-child whose mother lieth low, and there 
is none of human kind to help! 

Ella was conscious of it all. Kneeling by the 
outstretched form beloved so utterly, she engaged 
in wonderful child prayer; then, by degrees, the 
uplifted hands drooped, the head bowed, and, 
like a flower borne over by its weight, the little 
form fell upon her mother’s breast. 

And Eagle Hall was silent as a mansion of the: 
dead. 

‘Shscracla 


CHAPTER XI. 
THE KNIGHT OF THE ZGEAN. 


Asxuton Sr. Ausyn, smoking a hookah, reclin- 
ing upon a pile of skins; around him new books 
from India, latest publications of the Presiden- 
cies: tropical flowers, and broad-leaved plants, 
and clouds of gauze and lace shading the low, 
carven chamber, fragrant of woods as a spice 
chalet of the Southern Islands. 

Lena at his feet, upon a cushion of Damascus, 

quaintly attired—as became their seclusion and 
his poetical taste, in style that was a blending of 
Moore, Byron, and Chateaubriand—in white cash- 
mere and gold. And vastly pretty did Princess 
look, as upon one hand a bird of gorgeous plum- 
age waited to be soothed with bonbons from the 
other. ’ 
Mr. St. Aubyn had been disturbed that morn- 
ing, and was trying to smoke it off. He could 
not read; a parcel of magnificent drawings, re- 
cently received from Paris, remained unopened ; 
the hound stole up and laid its cold nose upon 
his hand without caress. 

Lena threw the choicest of the bonbons at papa, 
tossed off her bird, and curled herself indolently 
beside him on the tawny leopards, pulling at the 
tassel of his cap, at a dark chestnut curl astray 
below, at his olive velvet smoking-gown, trying 
to scatter his preoccupation. 

“Don’t let it trouble you, sweet. The man is 
not likely to return after such a message.” 

Lena had been sitting, as usual, at her silken 
embroidery in a bosquet of the garden, sometimes 
looking out to sea, thinking of all sorts of things 
blended of butterflies and sunbeams, when she 
became aware of the bobbing up of a head above 
the fence—a head unpleasant to look upon as 


A MODERN 


Cruikshank’s Jack Sheppard; and the thing was 
such a wonder, she had still looked, and finally 
burst out laughing at it, and then tripped into 
the house, to tell grave papa over his books and 
papers. 

All her life she had looked upon only his king- 
ly beauty, and the white-haired clergyman of the 
benignant face, who sometimes called to see St. 
Aubyn, and she had no idea any thing as ugly 
existed in the world, as it certainly did not in 
her world of beauty and light. Therefore Prin- 
cess made much of this, as children make of 
Punchinello. 

Not so St. Aubyn. To his girl’s surprise, he 
put her hastily from him, and bade her never sit 
within that part again, or within view of the 
fence any where; then melted to sudden tender- 
ness, and kissed her, drawing the sunny head to 
his heart; but she felt that flutter like a bird 
ruffled at presence of the hawk. 

Then he had strode with jerking pace, thought- 
ful, as of a general overtaken in his tactics, clutch- 
ing at his gown convulsively, looping the cord, 
and muttering, “After all my pains, after all 
these years!” up to a small round spy-place— 
a side window set between the gables, whereby 
to reconnoitre the tangleway of the approach— 
and he saw the man astride the wall. 

He had seen him before, long back in the years 
when this hermit was a beau in society, and the 
world was a court for the play of his imperial 
breeding; and the man was unaltered other than 
to become more villainous in appearance. The 
sight chilled him, and St. Aubyn turned passion- 
ately, to find the black and white face at his 
shoulder, composed, glacial, lady-like. 

“A trespasser, I think,” said as quietly as 
though “ Another peach upon the southern wall.” 

The master was taken unawares. 

“My dear Mrs. Brandon,” seizing her arm, 
“oblige me by sending Williams to acquaint the 
man these grounds are strictly private—the own- 
er permits no intrusion. He—he can speak civ- 
illy, you know; we live so isolated, this person, 
of course, is unaware.” 

The lady bowed and glided to oblige. He had 
not once fumbled so, and could not for the in- 
stant encounter those twin spears, her eyes. The 
black alpaca and snowy cuffs, and the marble 
face with its raven bands, disappeared among 
the stands of orange and citron, and the master 
waited while Williams went forth to parley. 

And this was the interpretation of the civility, 
the servant, from accident or design, taking a 
fowling-piece in his hand: 

“You'll please to drop off that fence, young 
man. My master didn’t put that up for such as 
you to ride on.” 

Still the man had not moved—Williams trifling 
ominously with the gun. This antagonism might 
have been one of the lady’s deep contrivings. St. 
Aubyn hung upon the issue of this impolitic course. 

“‘ Just tell your master Mr. John Beech will do 
hisself the pleasure of calling this hevening.” 

And the shock head bobbed, his ungainly form 
tumbled over, and. the jagged line of boarding, 
with the level piles and joists, was clear of its 
unwelcome visitor. 

This it was that had disturbed St. Aubyn more 
than he had been disturbed for nine long years. 
All day the hacienda was watched; at evening 
the great outer gate was doubly locked. 


MINISTER. 29 


Lena’s blandishments had failed to woo the 
student from his gloom. She had known him 
always reflective, sometimes taciturn, but never 
gloomy and melancholy, as he had been this long, 
disagreeable day. 

She resented it finely. She had whispered to 
Mrs. Brandon, “Papa is so grumpy!” and then 
had run away to her favorite nook, a cavity at 
the very edge of the cliff. Here she had seated 
herself on the grass with a book, which she could 
dangle over the brink and read in mid-air, if she 
pleased ; had trailed a slender white hand bird’s- 
nesting, and caught up corners of the sandstone 
and wild garlands of pink and blue eyed blos- 
som; had watched the glory of the sunset through 
a succession of majestic stages ; and had made a 
discovery that set her thinking of other things 
than butterflies and sunbeams—so eventful a day 
was this to our Princess St. Aubyn. 

She had discovered a vessel, of shape different 
to any she had ever seen; it was floating past, 
swan-like, white, with outspread wings curved 
beautifully, and a grace that thrilled. 

Lena closed her book, dropped her flowers, let 
her hair fall unthinkingly all about her glowing 
cheeks, down to the flower-strewn pinnacle, and 
she watched at her ease, delighted, lazily—quaff- 
ing the nectar of that vast green garden of sea. 

It was a yacht. Sunset on sails, on deck, on 
the young man lolling by the helm, on the tele- 
scope carried by the old skipper in attendance— 
it seemed a beautiful, unreal sort of picture, half 
belonging to the serried ranks of that golden 
pageant of cloud. 

While the girl was taking this stolen view, she 
was not, as she imagined, unseen by this Knight 
of the Aigean, who had been long regarding the 
picturesque section of the coast. 

Viewed from the water, the romantic cliff, tow- 
ering above its fellows, clothed with verdure, 
tinted all down its rugged side by hand more 
cunning than a painter’s, with the wide facade of 
that mansion upon its summit crowning the 
whole, was sufficient to warrant the keenness 
of his interest. Taking the glass, he examined 
the scene with more attentive scrutiny. To the 
fore, cresting the border-line, he detected a little 
face, like fallen fruit upon the grass, and the 
sway and scatter of hair, to which the ruby glow 
in the sky lent a wonderful radiance. Over this, 
many flowers and trees; behind the mansion 
walls rose, windows all a-gleam with crimson 
light, save one, where the ruby glare framed in 
a face and a figure that was black and was white, 
where the quiet woman watched and waited. 

“Wonder who the old party is up at the win- 
dow ?” he said, laying down the glass and pacing 
the deck; ‘“‘and I wonder what the little face 
upon the grass is like, come to be close to it? 
By Jove! An adventure after this monotonous 
cruise would be. refreshing; this calmness of 
wind and smoothness of water bores one awfully. 
One might as well be back in the L. R. C.” 

‘“‘Brown” (to skipper), ‘“‘whose place is that ?” 

“That, Mr. Arden? Why, it’s your father’s 
friend lives there, bless him! You've heerd talk 
of Mr. St. Aubyn, who’s so good to the poor?” 

‘““T know; he gives my father a sum of money 
every year to distribute. Rather a curious man, 
I believe. So that’s his place, is it? What on 
earth led him to eyry like the eagles?” 

‘Well, that’s no business of our’n, sure, Sir. 


30 


24 


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o& NP te 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


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“(HERE SHE HAD SEATED HERSELF ON THE GRASS WITH A BOOK.” 


He’s not in the way, and the wall was blank 
enough afore, as I can remember, hav’n’ done 
the waters sin’ a lad.” 
“ Married, eh ?” 
“Gad no, Mr. William ; he’s too wropt up in his 
darter ; and like a speret she is, and seldom seen. 
He never lets her out o’ sight for long, I reckon.” 


“Strange I’ve not heard my father speak of. 


these people; but then I’ve not been home long 
enough to hear all the gossip.” 

“Your father’s a proper sort of a gentleman, 
Mr. William, and considering he’s the only one 
as visits Mr. St. Aubyn, it isn’t at all likely he’d 
chatter, if you was at home a sight of a time.” 
And honest old Brown, the Yorkshire fisherman, 
quite unconscious of having said aught imperfect 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


in the direction of either grammar or civility, went 
at the waves as though mowing down ridges of 
grass with a brawny arm. William Arden, the 
pet of his college, gnawed viciously at the end 
of a cigar; he was unaccustomed to reproof, least 
of all when at home with the kind old pastor of 
the village church. 

“Brown,” he said, slowly, “‘you’re a bear!” 

Then he lounged on the tarpaulin, leisurely 
took a note-book and wrote, repeating to himself, 


and looking up now and then at the cliff: “ Mis- |. 


anthropic recluse—inaccessible hiding-place, built 
on steep rock, wall surrounding, high as house— 
fearful abyss—haunted cavern at foot—smug- 
glers, lovely damsel incarcerated—recluse eaten 
of jealousy—spite of precautions, some fellow 
falls in love with Héloise—blue fire—dénowement ; 
think that ’1l come in very well. Now, Brown, for 
dinner !” . 

And while his factotum was busied at the lard- 
er, this young scare-brain improved the shining 
hour by taking another glimpse of Hesperides. 

The young lady was standing at about the same 
spot; by her side was a tall, dark, extremely hand- 
some man, Even that distance revealed the re- 
markable cast of features; and the girl seemed 
protesting, pointing downward, shaking her head, 
and finally clinging about his neck with kisses. 

“ Disgraceful !” cried Mr. Arden; “and before 
- the fishes !”’ 

The gentleman had now caught sight of him, 
and dragged off the fair vision beyond power of 
his glass to follow. 

“Brute!” quoth Ulysses, irreverently, and there 
being nothing else left, directed the lens toward 
the singular face at the window. 

“Tragedy queen in repose,’’? he. murmured, 
“‘or dragon of the enchantment.” Then, loudly, 
“ Ready with the fowl, Brown ?” | 

The old man answered the shout by one as 
lusty, and the owner of the yacht was in his taste- 
ful little cabin at a stride. The dazzling road- 
way of surge and surf sent shafts to the silver 
cups and flagons; the wide western span of crim- 
son and orange and opal was ploughed to a trail 
of gems ; piles of luscious fruit tumbled the length 
of the snowy board ; sherry-cups flashed from their 
facets, lips, and slender curved lines; bunches of 
ferns, feathery and fragile, bowed to each other 
in rhythm; and looking around, Mr. Arden con- 
fessed nothing but the fair girl was wanting to 
complete the picture. 

The splash of the water his dining music, 
blown sea-bloom the perfume upon his table, yet 
he still thought a little voice would better it; and 
Somebody’s voice of the cliff it should be. 

“Bring up the bottled beer, Brown. 
take a glass yourself, man ?” 

Then, as a curious sort of change, while Brown 
was busy at the lead and ice, he chanted one of 
the dirges to the sunset; a low, melodious tone 
in unison with the accompaniment: 


“Can it be the sun descending 
O’er the level plain of water ? 
Or the Red Swan floating, flying, 
Wounded by the magic arrow, 
Staining all the waves with crimson, 
With the crimson of its life-blood ; 
Filling all the air with splendor, 
With the splendor of its plumage? 

Yes; it is the sun descending, 

Sinking down into the water ; 
All the sky is stained with purple, 
All the water flushed with crimson ! 
No; it is the Red Swan floating, 


You'll 


31 


Diving down beneath the water; 

To the sky its wings are lifted, 

With its blood the waves are reddened ! 
Over it the Star of Evening 

Melts and trembles, through the purple 

Hangs suspended in the twilight.” 

They had steered beyond sight of the house; 
only the cliff loomed gray of outline, sharp and 
hard, dead of its glow, colorless. 

Faint, far-off sound of a bell was heard ringing 
across the water. 

William Arden walked to where the skipper 
was hoisting a sail— 

“‘ Mermaidens, admiral ?” 

The old man placed a horny hand to his ear 
and listened— 

‘““The dinner bell at the big house on the cliff, 
Mr. William.” 

“‘ Bless my soul! I’m very pleased; we’ll dine 
together! By-the-bye, how’s the wind ?” 

“ Blows fresh—fresher nor all day. Keep out- 
ards, Sir?” 

‘““No, on the board; I will see that place by 
moonlight. Have some tobacco?” 

“Young master’s taking a interest,” muttered 
the seaman, plugging a pipe for himself; ‘‘I must 
furl wrong, for sink me if it’s ship-shape pirating 
afore his house!” So dogged and devoted was 
the regard of the Yorkshire fishermen for the 
patron by whom they steered, by whom they 
swore. 

———— 


CHAPTER XII. 
AN UNPLEASANT VISIT. 


Mrs. Branpon sat sewing in one of the apart- 
ments called the evening drawing-room, it being 
the custom to pass the time there after dinner. 
A large dusk room, all massive graining and 
gold, dark-colored woods, paneled from the pol- 
ished floor to the glistening brown rafters, lying 
back on the ceiling studded with golden stars 
upon a background of cerulean hue. An Indian 
carpet of grotesque design and fierce, hot colors 
covered a portion of the floor, and seemed an isl- 
and of magic charms; at another part, a line of 
lion skins, the heads magnificently dressed for 
cushions, gave a tawny, un-English look to the 
singular interior. Two columns—solid trunks 
of Swiss mountain wood, arose at one end, where 
carved plantain leaves curled, affording rest for 
the waxen lights, a galaxy of which illuminated 
the rich coloring of this chamber. Between the 
plantains, looped by thick cords of twisted silk, 
were blue rep curtains heavily braided and em- 
broidered with gold. St. Aubyn, although he had 
acquired Eastern and Continental tastes, was not 
of sensuous likings. He might have crowded 
this chamber with luxurious couches and otto- 
mans, and all the indolent comfort of Persia and 
Turkey, but he rather cultivated the stern ease of 
Arabian simplicity—tanned skins, purple pillows 
of odorous herbs, burnished shields in lieu of 
mirrors, roughly moulded véssels of red ware, 
with iced and fragrant waters; uncouth jars 
formed of twined dragons, gold upon orange clay, 
wherein the cactus flowered brilliantly ; tables of 
intricate wood-work, more suited to the summer- | 
house, whereon volumes richly bound, a perfume 
in themselves, glowing with crimson and yellow 
and gold. The bronze mantel was loaded with 
curious glittering rock brought from stalagmitic 


32 A MODERN 


chambers beyond two oceans, and with plumage 
of African birds, one wing of which was a pic- 
ture. 

Lena was lying upon one of the skins, inducing 
a kitten to leap from one to another in pursuit of 
a ball of silk. 

Mrs. Brandon looked up from her needle-work. 

“Had you not better get up, Miss Lena? I 
am afraid you will spoil your frock, new not a 
week ago.” It was of rich black velvet, with 
costly black lace falling from the snowy shoulders. 

“Mrs. Brandon, I will not be dictated to in that 
way; if I care to roll about after pussy, I’ll do 
so. Come here, tit, tit, tit!’ And the refracto- 
ry young lady laid herself out the length of a 
lion defiantly, knotting its mane, fixing her chin 
firmly upon its head, and looking up over its 
great eyes, impudently as you please, yet all dim- 
ples and smiles. 

Mrs. Brandon continued her sewing, not a 
~ muscle disturbed; her cotton broke, she repaired 
the line quietly, even sweetly. 

“Tm glad I am not your mamma, my dear.” 

“ Now [ll just tell papa that.” 

The lady started from her seat, dropping the 
work. 

“Nay, my dear, I did but joke; pray do not 
worry your papa about any thing so trifling.” 

““T can’t make papa out to-day at all; he seems 
upside down.” 

“T think he would say the same of his daugh- 
ter, could he see her now.” 

“Really, Mrs. Brandon, you are rude!” (going 
a pilgrimage upon knees after the kitten’s tail). 
‘“‘But that man this morning! And then being 
cross because I was watching that old boat—” 

“‘ Boat, my dear?” 

“Well, little ship I might call it. It passed be- 
low near to the shore; nobody on board but a 
young gentleman and his man; they seemed to 
be enjoying themselves. I wished myself one 
of the party; how nice it must be! I feel so dull 
sometimes, Mrs. Brandon!” sitting up now, thor- 
oughly in earnest. 

The lady looked at her with the expressive eyes 
where sympathy, commiseration, and aroused in- 
terest were made to play upon the girl’s heart 
with subtle effect. 

“Poor child! I dare say. The most favored 
bird wearies of its cage sometimes.” 

Little in the words, and very gently said; but 
they sank deep. 

“What a long time papa is smoking after din- 
ner to-day! Ill go and see after him.” 

And half petulantly the little girl ran from the 
room. 

Taking advantage of her absence, Mrs. Bran- 
don removed a letter from her bosom. It had 
been received that morning; it bore the London 
post-mark, and it was signed 


Nek Bainard. 


The contents ran: 


“ HorTENSE,—The man Beech has turned trai- 
tor. He may visit yours. Prevent interview with 
either. His object will be extortion. I give you 
carte-blanche to a Thousand. An exposure may 
ruin the girl’s best chance. She must inherit all 
or none.” 


“ Not while I can prevent it, Mr. Noel Barnard! 


MINISTER. 


With all your cleverness, you may be circumvent- 
ed yet. You don’t know Hortense Brandon alto- 
gether, shrewd as you are. So you’ve thought 
these dull, patient years of waiting have been for 
you? Well, work on, until all your plans turn 
out addled and impotent.” 

A sound without of footsteps being toilingly 
dragged in the direction of the drawing-room, 
and the girl’s laughing voice, “‘ Nay, but you shall, 
papa; you are my prisoner, and shall come to 
judgment.” 

The door is dashed open, and St. Aubyn dragged 
in by the arm. 

“Found him all alone, smoking that nasty pipe, 
and looking so blue through the smoke I hardly 
knew him. There, Sir!” 

In a breath, gathering all her strength for one 
vigorous push, she sent him back on a sofa of 
crimson cloth, spread with a magnificent array of 
tiger stripes. 

Mrs. Brandon, quite gently, and as a matter of 
course, laid down the work, walked to the remote 
extremity of the polished boards without so much 
as a footfall being heard, brought back the latest 
received Calcutta Quarterly, placed it upon the 
sofa beside him, unloosed a calabash containing 
Juice of limes and iced water, always hanging 
within reach of his favorite couch, placed a glit- 
tering Algerian tray and coffee service upon one 
of the small tables, and a fine cambric handker- 
chief, which she dipped in attar, beside the journal. 

“Thanks, Mrs. Brandon—many thanks !” 

Their eyes met, and this time she lowered hers, 
coy and timid, yet with appearance of thus veil- 
ing infinite devotedness. 

“Oh, Mrs. Brandon does so much for you, papa! 
and I do nothing—except pull your beautiful 
curls.” . 

Sitting on edge of the sofa, half crying, Lena 
looked so prettily disconcerted, St. Aubyn said, 

“Mrs. Brandon is naturally thoughtful, my 
love.” 

“Well, and Mrs. Brandon’s paid to think, and 
thinks to be paid.” 

And jumping upon his knee, the speaker sat 
enthroned, and stared the ghastly face of her 
rival completely out of countenance. Mrs. Bran- 
don might or might not have been displeased ; 
nothing was seen of it but a trifle more paleness. 

“Léna,-dear, I will not have you rude.” 

“Oh, of course, papa, take Mrs. Brandon’s part.” 

A hammering at the great outer gate stopped 
further parley, and caused the inmates of the 
drawing-room to look at one another. 

Presently came Williams, with a half-scared 
face, saying, 

“Tue Man, Sir!” 

Mr. St. Aubyn arose with dignity. 

“Inform this person that no strangers are ad- 
mitted to my house at this or any other hour.” — 

And he sat down with assumed calmness he 
was far from feeling, an agitated, restless move- 
ment of the hand, the fingers contracting with a 
nervous grip, the teeth meeting with firm resist- 
ance. 

Mrs.. Brandon walked to the mantel-piece with 
the subdued mien one wears when something un- 
pleasant is upon the tapis. She leaned a hand 
upon the bronze, and clinked quartz against mica, 
and feldspar with gneiss, and seemed as uncon- 
cerned as any body between there and Scarbor- 
ough. 


A MODERN MINISTER. | 33 


Williams returned, this time looking troubled. 

“ What now ?”’ asked St. Aubyn, impatiently. 

“When Id got back, Sir, I found him this side 
the gate. I said, ‘You ain’t bin long doing that 
little job, young man ! ? He said, ‘I’m used to 
this work, I am.’ So, what yow think, Mr, St. 
Aubyn, I don’t know; but what I thinks is this 
—that he’s come a- robbin’, and I’m for locking 
him in somewhere till we can cart him over to 
York.” 

Further suggestion was delayed by a snap, of the 
bull-dog species, at the speaker’s ear, which swung 
him completely round and into the hall, while the 


. subject of his blunt advice marched his hobnails 


over the polish. Williams was upon the point of 
resenting this, when a look from his master as he 
raised his hand stayed further assertion of his 
sense of manliness. 

“ What am I to understand by this intrusion ?” 
St. Aubyn asked, without rising, or presenting any 
marked discomposure. 

“Well, fust, you knows me, in course?” he 
said, lodging a low- crowned, battered, and brown 
old hat under the left arm. 

“T have seen you before—many years ago. 
Shut the door, Williams, if you please; you can 
leave this person with me.” 

“Oh yes, you can leave this person with your 
master, young man; ’tain’t the fust time we’ve 
bin left alone together.” 

And Mr. Beech turned—turned insolently—as 
quits again. Williams sorrowfully obeyed. He 
was attached, as servants do become, to the hand 
that feeds and pays liberally. 

“Lena, go with Mrs. Brandon, dear, to the mu- 
sic-room. I will rejoin you very shortly.” 

Mrs. Brandon came gravely, decorously, from 
the mantel, passed John Beech with a meaning 
dart from the hard black eyes, and with a low, 
affectionate, ““Come, my love!” took the girl’s 
hand to lead her from the room. But Lena was 
in a sort of daze. From removal of the man’s 
hat she had never ceased to look at his face, as 
though trying to remember something—to trace 
the flitting shadow of a memory; and it was 
dreamily, reluctantly, she allowed herself to be 
conducted from the room. 

“How little miss be grown! And seems to re- 
member me, belike.” 

St. Aubyn made no reply to this, but began 
pacing the room irritably; fretting under this 
new experience of a type to which he was quite 
unaccustomed. 

“You will be good enough to make this inter- 
view as short as you can.” 

“Well, arter comin’ two hund’ed an’ fifty mile 
in a horse-box, and clamberin’ a fence nigh an- 
other two hund’ed an’ fifty mile, I ain’t likely to 
cut it short till I’ve said all I’ve got to say, or to 
go till P’ve got all I come to get.” 

“Perhaps you’ll say what that is?” 

“Well, it’s money—that’s wot for one thing; 
and purlite treatment—that’s wot for another.” 

“The first is soon settled; the second you will 
find settled also in a summary manner, if you at- 
tempt too great familiarity. Therefore stand 
upon your guard and distance.” 

“It’s threats, is it?” exclaimed Beech, raising 
his voice. ‘Oh, come, my fine-feathered master, 
you'll find that won’t do!” 

“No noise here, if you please, unless your pur- 
pose is to acquaint my household with our busi- 

C 


ness. I think, all things considered, we'll talk 
it over in the garden.” 

“As you like.” 

The windows opened on to the lawn; there 
was, therefore, rapid and noiseless egress. St. 
Aubyn traversed a side path, shaded by laurels, 
leading off from the house to a sufficient distance 
for unheard conversation conducted in however 
high a key. 

“ Now, Sir!” 

The master sat on an old clump that looked 
black as bog-oak in the dense shade, what strug- 
gling light there was as yet but making the dark- 
ness still more dark. Right away east, however, 
a great ball of red was rising with gradual splen- 
dor, presently to light up the land and sea with 
silvery fairness. 

‘“‘ Well, of course you thought by securing your- 
self and your property round about like this to 
be free of every body livin’, and it’s sorry I am, 
to disturb the peace and ’appiness of this charm-. 
ing abode; but bizziness must be attended to, , 
and it was quite by haccident I learnt yer where-. 
abouts. How nice and comfortable you managed 
things! I might ’a bin poking about down at 
Sleperton a good while afore you turned up there, 
my lord.” 

“Silence! Do you not know that title died 
with the name to which it was attached? When 
I quitted the world, Sir, and gave myself to this 
cherished project, it was not to play with old. 
memories and old sorrows.” 

The tone was so mournful, so inexpressibly 
sad, even that brutal tormentor paused for an in-. 
terval. 

“Maybe I may ask if your experiment has. 
brought the ’appiness expected, Sir ?” 

“Fully! The child, under my careful training, 
has changed her whole nature; no one would. 
judge her an offspring of the people; beauty, 
grace, and many other acquired and cultivated 
accomplishments help to make her all that I 
could desire. Of her love for myself I will not- 
speak, although it is, of course, the principal mat- 
ter; but that you would not understand.” 

“‘Don’t wrong me,’ murmured hypocrite in the: 
rough; “you can’t tell my feelin’s jist now as she 
stood afore me a-trying her purty memory. I. 
could ’a took her to my ’art at that moment, and 
cried, ‘Forgive, forgive a father’s hagitation!’' 
Only thought you mightn’t like it; keeping all so. 
quiet from every body.” 

‘“‘ What are you doing now, John Beech? You. 
don’t appear to be still in the service of that gen-. 
tleman, the Indian writer; what was his name? 
Tve forgotten.” 

“Mr, Barnard,” replied John Beech, huskily. 
“No, Ive left his service; ’'m on my own hook. 
now—” 

“What do you mean by that ?” 

“‘Qpened in bizziness. A shop.” 

“ Beer, I suppose ?” 

“ Birds,” answered the man, dryly; “‘ canaries 
and sich like furren birds. Catch ’em over Lea 
Bridge; shop’s in Vinegar Street, Hackney Road, 
when you’re inclined to patronize.” 

Lighter became the mist that overhung the 
sea; all the face of garden and rock was dis- 
cernible; the two men thus curiously connected 
became more distinct to each other’s view. 

“Bird-catching hasn’t improved your appear- 
ance, I think.” 


34 


“That’s left for you to do, Mister St. Aubyn. 
I want to take a cool five thousand home with 
me for bird seed.” 

“That is a large sum; out of all proportion—” 

“Not for what you’re paying for;” and the 
little, glittering, ferret-like eyes of the extortioner 
fixed and transfixed his man. 

“ Let us walk, it is chilly;” and St. Aubyn set 
up a brisk movement shiveringly, and with nerv- 
ous twitchings, as though ague had come of that 
bog-oak. 

John Beech assented; he was very adaptable, 
and decidedly sociable. 

“You must quite understand, my good man, I 
have no time for jesting.” 

“Certain and poz it is ’m in little form for 
fun myself. I mean what I say, and [ll have it 
or split.” 

“Then you stand a fair chance of performing 
the latter. I beg to inform you, once for all, I 
am not to be intimidated into giving you five 
thousand pounds to keep for one week a secret 
you would divulge the next if the same. black- 
mail failed to be forth-coming. When I agreed, 
or rather desired, to provide for this child, which 
you then assured me, in compliance with my ex- 
press stipulation, was the daughter of refined al- 
though poor parents; when I became her guard- 
ian — pleased and satisfied with her appearance 
in every way—and adopted her, having been 
basely robbed of my own, my honor betrayed, my 
love foiled, my reputation tarnished, then I paid 
to you, and through you to her parents, the sum 
of one thousand pounds; and this, I was assured 
by your own lips, amply satisfied you all, and es- 
pecially the people whom you represented as 
grateful beyond measure at the prospect of their 
child being so well provided for. Now you 
speak of the girl as your own. What am I to 
think ?” 

“This, Mister St. Aubyn, that if you don’t 
choose to hand me the moderate sum I axed for, 
Pll have my girl back.” 

“That, if she comes of such a viper brood, is 
the best thing you can do.” And becoming quite 
angry, St. Aubyn strode away, and gazed vacant- 
ly across the wide expanse of water. A world 
of anguish was betrayed, a breaking heart; but 
it should break before he lived in life-long fear 
of a man like this. He had that in his composi- 
tion which would never tolerate victimizing; he 
would shoot him first, as one of his sharp-toothed 
tigers. The pale, handsome face shone with a 
grand passion. That love of his for Lena, who so 
innocently supposed herself his own, passed the 
telling by words. He never paused to ask him- 
self if he could resign her. Had he done so, he 
knew the reply would have miserably weakened 
his anger. For that love he had fenced his 
house about, that she should be wholly and sole- 
ly his own, that he should be spared a second be- 
trayal in his life, and that her love for him should 
be disinterested and of the highest type. It 
should be that of a daughter, until she was of 
age to hear the revelation from his lips. But 
this dilemma he was unprepared for; his only 
fear had been that by some mischance she should 
see some other, who by newer, fresher charm 
would weaken his own hold upon her heart. 
Thus, when he had come upon her on the grass, 
watching the yacht, it had really been more of a 
catastrophe and trouble than the ill-timed visit 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


of this man, which, unlike the other, a question 
of pounds would settle. As a child she had 
stolen upon his bruised and bleeding heart with 
a wondrous fascination, and without a shade of 
pain. That time was all a dream of sweet and 
playful innocence; but with years came deeper 
joys and graver pleasures, and he knew a happi- 
ness that transcended all he had desired. The 
girl had beguiled him of every care, charmed him 
with merriment, soothed him with tenderness, 
and in the native graces of her character and her 
liveliness of disposition he had been contented 
with her origin; indeed, had bestowed at most 
but a passing thought thereon. To hear this ruf- 
fian claim kinship with so bright and beautiful a 
being was a rude shock, and it chilled St. Aubyn 
to the soul. Painful experience had made him 
morbidly sensitive. He knew if this were true he 
could no longer feel the same warmth of loving 
interest in her, and such a barrier would be un- 
bearable. Yet he could not disprove it. The 
man had transacted the whole affair upon a lib- 
eral consideration. Lena herself had evident 
glimmering of an old recollection that might be 
an affectionate one. Horrible! 

The red of the great shield was changing to 
orange, and the garden was flecked with light 
and shade. They could see the broad expanse of 
sea cleared of its mist lying calm as a park of 
primroses in spring. Beech had followed him to 
the extremity of the walk, where shrubs formed 
a dusky screen to the bare brink of the preci- 
pice. 

That very day he had stood at this spot with 
his darling, beauty beaming from her eyes, blush- 
ing from her cheeks, glowing upon her hair, 
trembling in her voice, the exquisite beauty of 
childhood. Oh, it was impossible this man could 
be the father of such a creature! And there by 
the brink he confronted the man, and took his 
ground on a firm denial. 

“ But—I—do not believe your assertion, John 
Beech. You are no more the parent of that child 
than is the evil one himself.” 

Mr. Beech laughed a hard, dry laugh; there 
was a rustle among the laurels, a withered echo 
of the dead leaves, a discordant tumbling of 
earth where the conies frolicked up the cliff. 

“Perhaps you'd like me to ask if she remem- 
bers any thing of that time, Mister St. Aubyn ? 
Or perhaps you’d like a magistrate’s opinion 
upon yer hiding a ’spectable man’s child in a 
hout-o’-the-way place like this? Take my ad- 
wice and pay down with no bother, and I pledge 
you not to trouble for a long time to come. Of 
course I must see the little gal once in a way.” 

“T dispute your right to see her at any time, 
and you never shall, if I can prevent it—” 

“‘ Now look you ’ere, best not make a henemy 
of me; one’s gone an’ done it a’ready, wuss luck 
for him!” 

“T have no interest whatever in your quarrels, — 
or in any thing concerning you—” 

“But I have!” The tall form of Noel Bar- 
nard here appeared crashing through the laurels. 
“Your pardon, my lord, for this unceremonious 
interference. I knew of this scoundrel’s designs, 
and am here to check his infamous audacity. I 
happen to know the parents of the young lady to 
whom you’ve proved so generous a benefactor, 
and beg to assure you their station, or that of 
her mother, is, emphatically, of rank equal with 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


your own. One day I may be in a position to 
enlighten you further.” 

“Thanks, Mr. Barnard ; you are indeed a friend 
in need. Your sometime servant was pinning me 
in a corner.” 

‘“So I see,” and the singular man cast a rapid 
glance at their dangerous proximity to the verge ; 
then turning authoritatively to Beech, who had 
several times essayed to speak, and was appar- 
ently charged with a volume of exposure, said, 

“Leave the premises—as you entered !” 

“ Never, till I’ve the money—” 

“ Be careful—”’ 

“T am, Mister Noel Barnard, and saving; and 
—TI allus pays my debts.” 

“Then pay this, Beech!’ and without more 
ado, and with a giant’s grasp, he hurled the man 
forward, down, through the shrubs, over the brink 
of the precipice. St. Aubyn stood horror-strick- 
en, if relieved, at the summary judgment. These 
men were sportsmen; both had scoured the jun- 
gles and been in at many a death; but this inci- 
dent, on his own property, was very repulsive to 
St. Aubyn. 

“‘Couldn’t have done it myself,” he remarked, 
sententiously. 

“Thought I might have occasion,” replied the 
other, coolly, turning down his cuffs. ‘‘ How’s the 
tide?” leaning over. ‘‘ A yacht yonder; yours ?” 
—pointing out the vessel just gliding again into 
sight. 

ENO,” said St. Aubyn, with a shudder; “but 
come in; permit me to renew an acquaintance 
made in India, such as it was—” 

“You are kind! I think I will, as it’s late. 
Perhaps your housekeeper could shake me up a 
bed—be off by sunrise—very pleased to have been 
of service. I thought I should. That old rock 
served admirably ; quite a Tarpeian sensation for 
that miserable parent. A most unprincipled fel- 
low, who will be missed only in the lowest pur- 
lieus of our overcrowded metropolis. Front of 
your house, I presume? Quite a regal building. 
I congratulate you very much. Light up stairs— 
Miss—St. Aubyn? Retiring probably—very good 
—early hours—healthy and wealthy and wise.” 

A shadow crossed the blind. 

“My daughter’s companion, Mrs. Brandon.” 

“ Brandon—Brandon—bless me—name’s fa- 
miliar—highly pleased to see the amiable mem- 
bers of your household, I’m sure—meet so many 
people who are not amiable. Long journey, hope 
you'll excuse travelling costume. What’s this ?— 
jessamine? My favorite plant, as I live!” 

He had placed himself as though he also would 
take root, hands on hips, strong and tree-like, but 
gnarled and of uncomely growth. Their voices 
had been heard, the window-sash of the music- 
room was thrown up, the thick curtain drawn 
aside, and there, in front of the twinkle of tapers, 
and color, and gleaming, stood Lena, the beams 
of the full moon pale upon her brow. 

“Oh, pa, dear, what a time you’ve been! I 
thought you were never coming.” 

“Ve-ry pretty, very!” Mr. Barnard spoke 
hoarsely. 

“Yes, I planted it the first year of our coming.” 
While Mr. Barnard bobbed his head beneath it, 
eyes all aslant on Somebody’s daughter. 

They passed to the drawing-room, and the mas- 
ter rang the bell, The visitor nodded pleasantly 
to Williams. 


35 


“T stood a fair chance of not being admitted ; 
your faithful fellow seems watchful as Cerberus. 
It was not until I partly disclosed my business 
that he would raise the portcullis.” 

“Supper, Williams—the best our larder will 
provide. We are so unaccustomed to those so- 
cial honors, visits; that I am afraid the best is 
but poor.” Addressed to the visitor, who was 
sitting with his long legs stretched out, leisurely 
examining some Indian photographs. 

“Funny old place, this Buddhist digging. I 
was fishing off Elephanta. ‘Ever done the Tem- 
ple?’ said one of the party. Some had, some 
hadn’t ; agreed to make for the caves; cool, sandy, 
and swarming with blear-eyed snakes; I took a 
drawing of that expressive ancient Siva and his 
cobra also. Some thief stole my gold pencil-case, 
and a gnat as long as a scorpion stung the tip 
of my nose. Ah! Miss St. Aubyn, I presume— 
delighted, I’m sure!” And he arose with much 
courtliness to the advance of the beautiful girl, 
his back to the light, his face to the shadow, 
holding forth a long, sinewy hand that looked as 
if it had come up white from stretching on the 
rack; it was the only part of him on which the 
light shone, and it was a weird part, like a rep- 
tile in marble, or a corner chipped off somebody’s 
sepulchre. Instead of taking the hand, Miss St. 
Aubyn stood transfixed by the shadowy face. 
Then she crossed to papa, watching this by-play 
wonderingly, and she whispered to him, Mr. Bar- 
nard recoiling his hand into the recesses of its 
cuff, 

“That’s the face ve seen so often in my 
dreams. What does it mean, papa? Why should 
I dream of him? Why is he here? Where is 
the other dreadful man ?” 

Mr. St. Aubyn was confused. He said, aloud, 

““My little girl has a faint recollection of your 
face, Mr. Barnard. My love, a very old friend 
of—of our family.” 

“Oh, ve-ry!” and Mr. Barnard chirped sooth- 
ingly to one of the stuffed birds. ‘“ Why, on my 
honor, thought it was alive! How art deceives 
one!” 

Mrs. Brandon entered quietly, and with much 
composure walked across thé room, taking up her 
work as though but that instant laid down. 

“Mr. Barnard—Mrs. Brandon.” 

He rose and ceremoniously bowed. She arose 
and ceremoniously courtesied. They sat down 
again, and the lady resumed her sewing. 

Then Williams appeared. 

“ Supper is served, Sir, in the breakfast-room.” 
They generally supped there; it was smaller and 
more cozy. Mr.St.Aubyn gave his arm to his 
daughter. Mr. Barnard stopped behind an in- 
stant; he was scrutinizing a work of elaborately 
carved leather nailed on one of the panels. Then 
he gracefully turned: “Ah! beg pardon!” and 
offering an arm to Mrs. Brandon, the procession 
moved on. 

‘What a wretch you are!” she whispered to 
him, playfully pinching his arm. They were cross- 
ing the hall of many woods. He smiled upon the 
quiet woman—smiled down on her, for he was so 
tall—an august smile, false as the glimmer upon 
those far-reaching cedars. 

It was an elegant repast, despite there being 
nothing in the house, and Williams, all decorum, 
stood behind his master’s chair, attentive as the 
first of the school of St. James’s. It was so very 


36 A MODERN 


pleasant now that the moon was high and un- 
clouded, Miss St. Aubyn begged the shutters and 
curtains might be drawn aside. 

“ Are you not a little afraid of the chilliness, 
my love?” and St. Aubyn looked restlessly in the 
direction of the hidden garden. 

“T believe it is a dry air to-night—very pleas- 
ant!’ and Mr. Barnard assisted Mrs. Brandon to 
a little jelly. 

St. Aubyn nodded permission, and the man un- 
closed the casement. The master’s hound came 
smelling round Mr. Barnard, and growled: exit 
hound by way of the window. 

“Miss St. Aubyn, may I pass you some jelly 2” 
He was wonderfully polite, not in the least strain- 
ed; it was all natural. 

“IT suppose the great gore stands where it 
did, Mr. Barnard ?” 

“You allude to the fashionable world? Oh, 
very much so! Plenty stirring.” 

“What is the government? It’s five years, I 
think, since I saw an English newspaper.” 

“Bless me! Is it possible? No interest in 
politics ?” 

“Not the slightest; it would be the last thing 
I should oceupy five minutes over. What say 
you, Mrs. Brandon ?” 

“A grand science, Mr. St. Aubyn!” and the 
quiet woman laid a knife down carefully and 
without noise, and a fork as gently, and crossed 
a spoon to the pattern of the damask as though 
evolving a problem. 

“ Ah, wait till you’re gray-haired, my dear Sir; 
yow’re bound to come to it in the latter days.” 

“Tf I waited until then, I should give prefer- 
ence to the Church, and leave care of the state 
to younger men.” 

“Very good; I was intended for the Church 
myself—‘ bound to be a bishop,’ said my father. 
My mother had my night-gowns made of lawn, 
and would have me stand in front of her every 
evening before bed, reading the burial service 
from the Prayer-Book—” 

Here some confusion was caused by the hound 
running in with an old brown hat, low-crowned, 
and much battered. Williams having removed 
this with the tongs, order was restored. 

“You were just at an entertaining point of 
your history, Mr. Barnard; pray continue.” 

“To be sure—going to tell you. May I trou- 
ble you for the Cayenne, Mrs. Brandon? Many 
thanks. Finding my prejudices biased in favor 
of the bar, that idea was abandoned in the foren- 
sic interest. I forget if I practiced to any large 
extent, and the memoranda of that early period 
were consumed at a fire, where’I lost a lot of 
property and valuable documents. Let’s see; 
wasn’t I connected with the law when I knew you 
at Calcutta? Dear me, no! I was editing the 
Nabob, and a pretty mess I made of it; took the 
rice and indigo side too, disposed of all the valu- 
able plant, and returned to England. One wants 
to be thoroughly unprineipled to—to— Shall I 
help you to a little curry—it ¢s curry, I think ? 
Bless my soul, it’s sweet sauce! Well, I think I 
must— Beg pardon; what’s that?” 

All listened, Williams stood silent; the steel 
cold eyes of Mrs. Brandon darted to the face of 
Noel Barnard, played an instant, and stole back. 
St. Aubyn placed a hand to his ear and, painfully 
intent, listened with hearing at its utmost tension. 
Lena trifled with her wine-glass, and wondered 


MINISTER. 


what had come to the people. It was heard 
again, the shout of some person in extremity, 
afar, they could scarcely tell the direction, then 
all was still. Mr. Barnard, paring a slice of 
cheese, 

“Fisherman to his mate probably—dangerous 
coast.” 

Mrs. Brandon here rose from the table, praying 
her departure might be pardoned—a troublesome 
headache to which she was subject these warm 
months, 

“Thunder in the air,” said Mr. Barnard, with 
much gallantry, opening the door for the lady to 
pass forth. He knew as well.as possible she had 
been playing him false; he knew by that shout 
John Beech had escaped, that, separately or to- 
gether, these two would henceforth be toiling to 
enmesh him; he knew their counter-schemes 
would ere long be many, that the hunters would 
press him sore. From afar he scented battle, 
and laughed the foe to scorn. The chase had 
ever thrilled him with wild ardor; this promised 
to be exciting, this war with high and low so- 
ciety. He knew Beresford Travers, Garston, and 
Co. were endeavoring to checkmate him on the 
great intrigue-board. Yet it was no vulgar ad- 
venturer they and others were tracking and seek- 
ing to outwit; they were conscious of this, and paid 
him the compliment. And while in a variety of 
quarters men and women were working to entoil 
the schemer, he coolly returned to his seat to— 
enjoy the liberal evening repast at the house on 
the cliff? The old vintages removed from an 
older mansion, where cellars dated from the ac- 
cession of Hanover? Nay, but privately to feast 
eyes and hearing upon the beauty of Somebody’s 
daughter. 


EES Bey < SS es 


CHAPTER. XIII. 
A DRAMATIC READING AT THE PAVILION. 


THREE of them, selected for the invariable 
glossiness of their appearance and persuasive 
manners, had waited upon the Rev. Westley Gar- 
land to solicit his aid and interest for the chari- 
ty they represented—a fashionable charity, well 
sustained by the polite, on whom was neither 
spot nor blemish. And there had been discus- 
sion as to whether some one of more established 
principles would not do as well for the purpose 
they had in view (he had been seen suspiciously 
near to a Methodist’s house only the day before). 
But no; there was not a reader in the church as 
popular or as likely to replenish their exchequer. 
So they waited upon him, sent up word “‘a dep- 
utation,” and three cards on the waiter; and 
stood just within the little drawing-room, each 
with a hat behind him, feeling important and 
conscious of their authority, and pluming for the 
impressive. Servant came down. Mr. Garland 
would see the gentlemen. Would they walk this 
way? They walked, stood in the presence of 
the great reader, were requested to take seats, 
and did so, One put hat under chair, one on 
knee; the third, as of bolder type, would place 
it on the table, but, not finding space, for books, 
extinguished, with characteristic taste, an exqui- 
site stgtuette. 

e- are sorry to trouble you, Mr. Garland; 
knowing how valuable your time is” (the preach- 
er courteously waved his hand, as signifying no 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


trouble), ‘‘ myself and friends desire to apologize 
for this intrusion” (‘‘myself and friends” nod 
heads as conscious of the intrusion), “ which we 
feel convinced, with your uniform goodness, you 
will condone in recollection of our high and phil- 
anthropic object.” 

The foreman had spoken this little bit before 
his toilette-glass until perfect. His colleagues 
looked on with mute admiration. One of them 
blew a nose accustomed to overawe a board of 
. guardians, 

“To what cause am I indebted, gentlemen, for 
the honor of your visit? Your names are famil- 
iar to me in connection with town matters.” 

“Oh, precisely! We have had the honor 
many years; myself—I say it with diffidence— 
almost a lifetime. I am Mr. Bubb. My dear 
friends here, respectively, Mr. Lurch” (Mr. Lurch 
stands up, glossy and smiling); “‘ you have heard 
of Lurch’s far-famed Tonic Ale, I am sure, Sir?” 
(Mr. Garland bows politely, yet a little distantly ; 
he opines it is a commercial visit.) “And Mr. 
Ebenezer Wriggle” (Mr. Wriggle stands up, 
glossy and smiling), ‘“‘the name is known to you? 
—Old Mr. Wriggle did much for our town; he 
was upon—in fact, upon every thing; his son is 
a worthy successor. I have the honor to intro- 
duce to you Mr. Ebenezer, sole surviving repre- 
sentative of the firm—Pickles, Sir, and Fish 
Sauce!” (Mr. Garland bows still more distantly ; 
the party is not much to his taste.) ‘We may 
as well announce at once the honored purpose of 
our visit, of which you should have been favored 
with a notice; but owing to some extraordinary 
oversight of our secretary’s, the communication 
was omitted until too late, and” (smiling) ‘‘ here 
we are!” (Mr. Wriggle looks across to Mr. Lurch 
as indicating a happy hit.) “We are, so to 
speak, ambassadors, Mr. Garland. We are here 
on behalf of the Mariners’ Provident Associa- 
tion; patrons, the Duke of Mainwaring, the Earl 
of Comdarlington, Lord Pepper, the Hon. Fred- 
eric Glover, the Duchess of Mainwaring, the 
Countess of Comdarlington, Lady Pepper, the 
Hon. Mrs. Glover and Miss Glover, and many 
other patronesses of high standing. My wife, 
Mrs. Bubb, has the distinguished honor of acting 
as correspondent of the Ladies’ Committee. Mrs. 
Bubb would have waited upon you to-day with 
us, only we imagined it scarcely consistent with 
the etiquette observable; but I have brought 
Mrs. Bubb’s photograph; you will permit me to 
introduee Mrs. Bubb to your notice? Iam only 
sorry our religious opinions differ, or we would 
unite with you in the inspiriting worship of one 
beneficent Creator at your church.” (And the 
foreman takes a slant look over to his brethren, 
in search of encouragement; but Mr. Lurch is 
looking very surly, while the other is watching a 
fly upon the ceiling. Then Mr. Bubb plunges.) 
“We have called, Sir, to solicit your most gener- 
ous co-operation” (Mr. Garland unlocks a small 
drawer of escritoire). ‘‘ No, Sir, not that!” (with 
dignity, as resenting the mercenary). ‘It is by 
means of a Reading from the Poets and Humor- 
ists, or some original composition of your own, 
that you can help us. The Music-room, Royal 
Pavilion, is at our disposal; but experience has 
proved the capacity of the room to be inadequate 
to the publie demand for admission upon occa- 
sion of your readings, Mr. Garland: it is there- 
fore the intention of the committee, upon happi- 


37 


ly securing your sanction, to engage the Dome, 
which, upon pressure, will accommodate three 
thousand persons; half the area we propose to 
issue guinea tickets for, the remainder half a 
guinea; gallery, five shillings.” The preacher 
smiled wearily, yet kindly. 

“You are welcome to my services. But do you 
suppose Brighton is to be so éxorbitantly taxed 
for hearing a man read ?” 

“It is generally admitted, Mr. Garland, a guinea 
is not too much for the pleasure of hearing you 
read: the end justifies the figure.’ And Josiah 
Bubb, Silk-mercer, looked as though he had said 
a very clever thing over a remnant. 

‘““Perhaps you would favor us at your conven- 
ience with a draft of the pieces to be read, for 
the advertisements ?” 

‘Must advertise, I suppose, Mr. Bubb ?” asked 
the clergyman, pleasantly. 

“‘Can’t do any thing without it in a public way.” 

‘ (Chorus of Tonic Ale, Pickles, and Silk.) 

“T think you gave me the option of something 
original? I have two or three dramatic selec- 
tions, written some time ago, by which I set af- 
fectionate store. As these will be quite fresh, they 
will, perhaps, please better than the oft-read, well- 
known pieces. For a guinea your audience will 
expect something new, Mr. Bubb.” 

Thus, all being settled, the deputation retired, 
highly gratified with the result of the visit. 

They proceeded at once to the curator’s resi- 
dence, to ascertain forth-coming engagements, and 
to secure the magnificent hall. 

Then three heads were put together in the 
mercer’s office, and a production concocted, which, 
after being submitted to several highly critical 
opinions, and weighed and considered in various 
bearings, and revised and amended in others, 
broke upon the startled town in this wise: 


DOME, 
ROYAL PAVILION, BRIGHTON. 


DRAMATIC READING, 
BY THE 
REY. WESTLEY GARLAND, 
IN AID OF 
+ THE MARINERS’ PROVIDENT ASSOCIATION. 


ON THURSDAY, JULY 30, AT EIGHT O’CLOCK. 


' 


Admission: Reserved Seats, One Guinea; Area, 

Half Guinea; Outer Circle and Balcony, Five Shil- 

| lings. Tickets of the Secretaries, of Messrs. Cramer, 
and at the Doors. 


“Tt?s neat and to the point,” said Mr. Bubb, as 
he stood at the Pavilion gates. before one of the 
announcements. ‘‘Good wine needs no bush, 
We shall have a bumper.” 

So it proved, at least in perspective, the whole 
of the reserved tickets being exhausted on the 
day of issue, and Mr. Bubb and his colleagues 
had even slyly despoiled the next five rows. The 
rush for these, if more leisurely, was not less cor- 
dial. It was evident great interest had been 
aroused, the pleasantest anticipations excited. 
Nobody cared very much for the Provident As- 
sociation, but Westley Garland happened to be 
the idol, Had the idol been broken, and sixpence 


38 


wanted to repair the breakage, nobody would have j 


found one for the purpose. 
Mr. Blake, upon hearing of the Reading, wrote 
Mrs. Blake as follows: 


“My pEAR MarGaret,—Having a budget of 
news, I snatch half an hour to tell you how we 
are going on. Business is quiet. Dr. Hollroyd 
in yesterday, says the town is very dull, none of 
his people are back. Spite of which, they’ve in- 
duced Mr, Garland to risk a Reading; it comes off 
on the 30th, to-morrow week. Mr. Garland him- 
self called, very politely, and brought tickets for 
you, me, and Rose, for which I am sure he paid 
three guineas. Just like him to do so. He in- 
quired particularly how you and Pet were, and 
when you thought of returning; and if I was 
writing, I was to kindly tell my little girl he has 
a pair of love-birds for her. Very thoughtful, 
I’m sure. You will be surprised to hear Lady 
Guilmere is recovering rapidly. There is some- 
thing mysterious about this. She was given over 
by her own medical men and those from town, 
when Mr. Garland commenced daily visits, some- 
times twice a day. (I learn this from her foot- 
man.) Improved symptoms set in, and her la- 
dyship’s condition bettered daily and hourly. (I 
learn this from the maid.) And now her lady- 
ship is rapidly approaching convalescence. Be- 
tween you and me (and this is strictly private, 
better not to mention it before Rose), I shouldn’t 
be surprised if Mr, Garland and her ladyship make 
a match of it. But you will be looking for my 
fashionable news. Well, first and foremost, 
Brighton will have its queen, or I should write 
empress, this coming autumn. Any thing more 
superb, as you will say, has never been seen in 
the South, or any other part, for that matter. She 
only arrived from Paris yesterday. They have 
quite a retinue. Some of the servants are dark- 
ies, and I understand their luggage has Indian 
labels on in plenty, with Benares, Dacca, Poonah, 
Baroda, Lahore, Agra, Nagpoor, Mirzapoor, Tan- 
jore, Allahabad, Rampore, and Calcutta. (I had 
this from one of the hotel servants—they are 
staying at the Bedford until their house is pre- 
pared. Grundens are talked of as the furnish- 
ers.) The future leader of our fashions, and we 
shall know what style is this season, is Lady Hel- 
en Darrell, of Darrell Abbey—a place somewhere 
in the Lake district, which has been closed during 
some years’ absence abroad, (One of the cham- 
ber-maids told me this, she had it of her lady- 
ship’s maid, or one of them, for there seem to be 
half a dozen.) They were going on to Chelten- 
ham, and may do so yet, something at the last 
moment having altered her ladyship’s designs. I 
am told she is capricious, passionate, and violent ; 
but I saw nothing of this the time she was in the 
shop (for we have been honored thus early). Came 
in with most imperious majesty, sweeping from 
the carriage. Velvet dress of dense crimson, and 
an elegant wrap of some sort. Not a scrap of 
ornament; no jewelry. Haven’t time to write 
you more description, but hope you will soon be 
home to see this paragon. The Reading will be 
a good opportunity. Sure to be there. I’m told 
she goes to every thing. There is an elderly man 
in attendance, as dry as an old walnut, of whom 
nobody takes any notice, and Lady Darrell curso- 
rily alludes to him as ‘his lordship,’ He is be- 
lieved to be her father. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“But I must be closing. Smith being out for 
his holiday, I am rather tied. We are managing 
indifferently well in the house. The girl will not 
learn how to cook a steak, I suspect, if we keep 
her another ten years. 

‘“‘Tell Rose I shall expect lots of sea-weed and 
pretty shells. No doubt you are enjoying your- 
selves finely; I quite envy you the cool breezes 
on the sands. It is dreadfully hot here. I take 
my constitutional every morning over the Downs. 

“With love to yourself and Rose, and kisses 
to both, Your affectionate husband, 

“ JosEPH BLAKE. 

“P, S.—Will meet you in town any day you ap- 
point for your return, and we will take a stroll 
round the Yard to look at the shops. Tell Pet 
she has not written me even one little note this 
time.” 


Of course the popular preacher heard of the 
unprecedented rush for the tickets, and, as a 
matter of fact, it moved him not one jot or tittle; 
and not a quarter as gratefully as would have 
done an orphan’s broken thanks, a widow’s tear- 
less gratitude. Where the committee worked for 
their own honor and glory, and the public paid to 
hear a great orator, the man himself, perhaps, was 
the only individual sympathizer with the desti- 
tute mariners. 

“Tt ought to be a treat, my love, for he is a 
most accomplished reader. I assure you Society 
is quite at his feet.” 

Thus Lady Comdarlington to Lady Pepper, and 
of a man who estimated their race and class as 
of very slight value; of a man with a broken 
heart, whose life was devoted purely to aiding the 
troubled ; a man to whom adulation was as smoke, 
and the symbol of applause a weather-vane; who 
would have read as faultlessly beneath the sky 
on the beach to the fishermen as to the aristo- 
cratic flock the magic of his genius drew about 
him. 

He listened to no party feeling ever, but was 
hand in hand with each in all Christian charity; 
and when the vulgar aired their audacity by such 
comments as, ‘We are only sorry our religious 
opinions differ, or we would unite with you in the 
inspiriting worship of one beneficent Creator at 
your church,” he would smile very kindly, won- 
dering a little, but not angered, and would have 
joined in their own service an hour afterward with 
much willingness. 

The same evening he dispatched his letter to 
Mrs. Blake, the chemist, busy in his shop, saw 
Mr. Garland’s carriage stop. He noticed the gen- 
tleman looked wearied and paler than ordinary. 

“‘ Good-evening, friend; I hope it is well with 
you.” 

“ Very well, Sir. 
ing overstrong.” 

‘“‘To tell the truth, my rest has been disturbed. 
I seldom know what it is to sleep in proper hours. 
I shall surprise you when I say I often see the 
sun rise from your Dyke after a stolen night 
march over the Downs.” 

Joseph Blake looked with pitying interest at 
this singular man who possessed a mysterious sor- 
row that, if it imbittered his own life, rendered 
him irresistibly fascinating to others. The chemist 
had often speculated over Mr. Garland’s age; it 
was as great a mystery as the rest of the sur- 
roundings ; it might be thirty, it was as likely to 


I am sorry you are not look- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


be sixty. The Minister’s servants were the only 
retainers in the habit of being sent to the shop 
from whom Mr. Blake could extract nothing rela- 
tive to their master. 

‘“‘T thought it very likely you studied at night, 
Sir; but I was quite unprepared to hear that you 
made such pilgrimages. However, you know a 
pleasure few enjoy. After the long night walk, 
the sunrise, from that point, must be doubly mag- 
nificent.” 

“You are right; itis the preparation by night 
for the after-joy.” And for an instant a curious 
expression flitted over the preacher’s face. Mr. 
Blake was not versed in this form of prescription, 
and attributed it to the flutter of his striped blind. 

“‘T want you to send me some more arrowroot, 
as before, at your convenience.” 

The chemist bowed, and the preacher took up 
a silver-topped vinaigrette. 

“Mrs. Blake is quite well, I hope? Still a tru- 
ant, I suppose?” smiling, and inhaling the pun- 
gent aroma. 

“JT wrote my wife only this morning, and men- 
tioned your kindness in presenting us with the 
tickets. We shall look forward to the Reading 
with eagerness. I meet my wife in town one day 
next week. Mrs. Blake isn’t very fond of travel- 
ling by herself, but my assistant is away, and I 
can not spare the time.” 

Mr. Garland flushed. Flutter of the blind 
again. 

“T shall be in town myself next week. Will 
you permit me to run down to Seaborough, and 
escort Mrs. Blake and your little girl home? It 
is dangerous journeying about unprotected, for 
ladies and children, in these excursion times. 
Nay, it won’t be trespassing upon my time or my 
kindness; it is myself that will be indebted to 
you; the little exertion will prove beneficial. Is 
it a bargain, Mr. Blake ?” 

“Certainly, if you wish it; and I don’t know 
how to thank you enough.” 

So by the next post Joseph Blake wrote again, 
in this wise: 


“Mr. Garland has just been in; goes to Lon- 
don next week, and will be pleased to run down 
and see you home. Get Pet to persuade him to 
take her round the West End for the shops. 
Write me the day you propose returning.” 


The reply came on the 24th; it was in the 
child’s writing, characteristic and sweet, inclos- 
ing a tiny Oéllet for Mr. Garland: 


“*Drar Papa,—l’ve asked ma if I may write to 
you, and ma says Yes, and she’s glad to get off 
the job. And I’m staying in this morning, instead 
of going a-paddling, as I meant, and I’m all alone. 
So you'll know I’ve written this all myself, won’t 
you, dear papa? Ma has taken her knitting down 
to the beach, where she works in the shade of the 
bathing-machines, while a gentleman who’s very 
polite, round at the hotel, and whose name on the 
card is ‘Sir Charles Neville,’ reads to ma, and 
seems very attentive; only you mustn’t tell ma I 
said so, because she told me ‘you needn’t talk 
about it before your pa.’ He’s very kind to me, 
and buys sweets; but I don’t like him. I like 
Lorry Vincent a little bit; he always lives here; 
we play on the beach; and I’m downright fond 
of his ma—but I love only you and Mr. Garland 


39 


(after you, dear); and I love him dreadfully. I 
am so glad he is coming for us, and I couldn’t 
help writing to say so. I do hope he won’t be 
angry. Ma wished me to say, if agreeable to Mr. 
Garland, Monday or Tuesday would suit her very 
well, And no more at present from 
“Your affectionate little girl, 
“NELLY Rose Buake.” 


Mr. Blake smiled good-humoredly, felt pleased 
that his wife was being so well entertained, 
thought probably Mr. Garland would be amused 
by both the little notes, and sent them on, togeth- 
er with this explanation : 


“ Dear Sir,—Have received inclosed from my 
daughter, which you will make all allowance for. 
“With respects, yours very faithfully, 

“ JosEPH BLAKE.” 


He was in the dingy little study; tomes and 
folios on walls and floor; all the gray, grim reti- 
nue of Fathers, from which he had tried, and so 
unsuccessfully, to glean a little light and comfort. 
Old volumes like the immortal steed, bare-backed 
and harum-scarum ; standard works of reference, 
like a tier of cousins three times removed ; dingy 
maps, as displaying the dry and dusty nature of 
the earth; a bust or two of some cross-grained 
philosophers who had, seemingly, become petri- 
fied in their frowning studies; and a portrait 
over the mantel-piece of his predecessor; grave, 
firm, with little of the overflowing human sympa- 
thy this man was possessed of. He was busy 
writing, with the industry of a merchant’s clerk, 
close-lined foolscap, a table of the sheets. It was 
currently rumored he realized a considerable in- 
come by his writings; and then arose the ques- 
tion, propounded by some busybody, what did he 
do with his money? He must be wealthy, if pop- 
ularity on the page, the pulpit, and the platform 
spelled wealth ; and yet he had never been known 
to make investment; so they abandoned their 
unsuccessful inquiry, and settled it he was amass- 
ing money on the sly. It came to him, with the 
rest, in a circuitous sort of way; he met it witha 
kind and gentle smile, and evidently did not think 
it of very great importance. When Mr. Blake’s 
big blue envelope was placed upon the table be- 
side him, he, not recognizing the handwriting, 
placed it a little aside, and continued his theme— 
some dull, uninteresting subject his facile pen 
was translating to color and poetry—and he went 
on thus with indomitable zeal and unceasing wea- 
riness at heart, until the tired eyes lifted, longing 
for something to light upon that might refresh 
and recall ; and indifferently, almost unthinking- 
ly, he opened the letter, read the accompanying 
line, the child’s letter, and held the note inscribed 
to himself tremblingly ; and with a gasping, half 
eagerness, half pain, another being started by this 
simple thing to quivering life. Some flowers fell 
out, wild flowers, dry by transit, yet odorous still 
of hedge-rows and country ways; flowers before 
had never seemed as sweet. This with them: 


“Dear Mr. GaRLAND,—I can not write my glad- 
ness that you are coming; I shall not sleep till 
then for thinking of it. But you must not bring 
us home directly, because there are some lovely 
walks I want to take you, chiefly to Sleperton 
Woods, which you will like wonderfully. I send 


40 


a few flowers I have gathered for you, with my 
love and kisses. 
“Your affectionate little friend, 
“NELLY RosE.” 


And now this grave and stately Minister does 
a singular thing. From a private drawer he takes 
a small pocket-book, from an inner pocket a let- 
ter, surely a fac-simile, flowers and love and kisses ; 
the writing perhaps not as regular, as indicative 
of model school tuition, yet a sweet, impromptu 
little note; and now—is this the mighty elocu- 
tionist whose voice will thrill that assembly of the 
great hall of the Alhambra—this the preacher men 
and women stand in aisles for every Sabbath ? 
Tears! Ah, well, none of the race are by. He 
places the notes together, and writes on. Calm- 
ly, thoughts stealing off now and again, but held 
in and under like the restive horses of a tandem. 

On the Monday he went down to Seaborough, 
arrived by that evening train, and had barely 
alighted before two little hands took his, two lips 
pouted for the greeting kiss, two eyes shone lus- 
trously a joyful welcome, and— 

“How good to come! Nobody knows I’m here 
to meet you. Ma’s walking with the company 
where the band is playing. Oh! I am so glad 
you’ve come! May I take that bag, Mr. Garland ? 
Do let me carry it.” 

“Too heavy, pretty one? What is the hotel 
called ? Not the best, the second best ?” 

“Sea View.” 

“Then this good fellow will take on my bag, 
and we will follow, for I have something for you 
within ; and I shall be glad of a wash and brush, 
after which you will take me one of those pretty 
walks, I am sure.” 

Rose leaped and clapped her hands; this was 
her ambition. 

In due time the treasures were unpacked ; beau- 
tiful boxes, books, and other things dear to girl- 
hood ; and last of all a doll dressed all in the best, 
and this, by wish of the generous donor, the little 
lady was to nurse and have up to the table while 
he had his tea. They were all to themselves ; and, 
although hotel accommodation, it was the most 
home-like tea-table the man had sat down to for 
—a very long time, it seemed, over that sigh. 

“ Well, little girl, and which walk am I to be 
taken this evening ?” 

““Oh, the best; it may rain to-morrow.” 

“Ts that the one you called—” 

“ Sleperton.” 

“Ts there not a Sleperton Manor ?” 

“Just the house I want to show you; it 7s a 
curious place. Have you then heard of it ?” 

“Years, years ago, I knew its owner.” And 
the Minister had lapsed so thoughtful, little Rose 
delicately forbore to speak. Silently she led him 
toward the picturesque village. Some who pass- 
ed them looked back at the tall companion of the 
pretty child they had seen on Seaborough beach. 

“Ts there no more quiet way, Rose, whereby 
we can escape these people and the dust? I 
never like a long, straight road.” 

“ By the fields it is farther, but ever so much 
pleasanter.” 

“ By the fields, then, we will go.” And they set 
forth by way of a stile, and along a path edging 
the fast-ripening corn; poppies peeped forth, and 
blue corn-flowers played at hide-and-seek ; and 
the little girl must make a small chaste bunch of 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


such garner bloom and present to him, with a kiss. 
She did not want to stick it in his hat or button- 
hole, or any other vantage-point, but gave it qui- 
etly and with much good taste, arranged within 
the confines of one of his old letters, and therein 
he kept it for the time being. The field sloped 
to a brook where a plank and hand-rail served 
for a rustic bridge ; forget-me-nots grew here, and 
reeds ; dragon-flies skimmed the water, their last 
minuet before the sunsetting ; cows were brows- 
ing in the opposite meadows ; woods girdled the 
prospect ; it was all a fair English picture of still 
life, and yet within hearing of the shrill neigh of 
the iron horse. 

““Wouldn’t you like to live here always—as 
quiet as this? I would.” 

“Yes, little Rose, yes—some—day—perhaps !” 

“How thoughtful you are, Mr. Garland! This 
walk makes you sad; now I enjoy it to-night, so 
much,” ; 

“T only meant by my words, dear child, that 
man has his allotted day for work; then come 
the eventide and rest.” 

“Tt is evening now,” said Rosa, demurely ; “we 
will rest ;” and by way of example she sat down 
upon the close -cropped grass. Mr, Garland 
stretched beside her. It was long since he had 
indulged in such luxurious movements. An ex- 
pression of infinite tenderness overspread his 
face, and again that quivering of the lip that at 
times made the face so extremely beautiful, when 
within his study, and seen by no mortal eye. 

“T am going to show you a picture—the last 
time I looked upon it, it was—an evening like 
this—” 

“An evening of a journey ?”—The face turned 
from the sunset as though its splendor filled him 
with pain. 

“The evening of a journey—a long journey.” 
He was unfolding it, with terrible care, from lay- 
er and layer of fine paper. It was a miniature, 
very delicately painted, of a little girl, like and yet 
unlike; this rendered patrician and ethereal. 

A mist passed before his eyes, and for a time 
the sweet face looked from out a cloud. 

The little girl gazed on the picture enraptured. 

“How beautiful! how beautiful!” 

“He restored it to his pocket, and they re- 
sumed their walk without speaking. Rose asked 
no question ; she had seen her friend overcome by 
some great sorrow; it was sacred to her, and he 
gained of this child a mute sympathy and under- 
standing perhaps neither man nor woman would 
have given. 

Along the hedge-side path of a field of oats, 
the sway of their graceful heads reaching away 
to the woods, a soothing rhythm to the boding 
outline of the dense perspective. ; 

“ These are Sleperton Woods !” as they entered. 
The Minister removed his hat; it was impressive 
coming out of glare of the sun-flushed fields—like 
entering a cathedral—but so gloomy that the 
child started. | 

“T haven’t been this walk for a week, and then 
it was in the morning. Had we better go on, Mr. 
Garland ?” 

Their eyes becoming accustomed to the dim 
light, they went on; he, as we know, was in the 
habit of taking gloomy walks. To cheer her he 
commenced to talk of Brighton, of his reading; 
how strange seemed the contrast! That Dome 
crowded with rank, wealth, fashion, with Society, 


“= 


A MODERN 


and this still, shady retreat, where the woodpeck- 
er and the squirrel alone awoke the echoes of the 
vault and balcony and many-peopled area. 

‘“‘ You say you like to hear me read on the Sun- 
day, Rose ?” 

“T always close my eyes, and listen with all my 
heart!” 

He smiled at the quaint expression. 

“This will be something fresh; it is a—” 

Further remark was for the time intruded upon 
by their passing into an open—an oasis of high 
grass and neglected growth, where long ago, 
when the lord of the manor was here, trees had 
been felled in plenty, but since then given up to 


(CUIH FCISHA GUHOLAYIS GNVTAVD “UN,, 


the vagrants, it lying on the right of way. Reu- 
ben Smith, the bailiff, was not overstrict in such 
matters; indeed, the gypsies had been noticed 
prowling suspiciously near to the house without 
molestation; a camp of this people now occupied 
the level. 

It has been explained how Westley Garland 
was one with the outcast of every kind, and he 
could not pass the circle of wanderers around 
their fire without a kindly word. They looked 
up suspiciously. Two or three, noticing the Min- 
ister’s neckcloth, removed their hats with rever- 
ence or superstition. 


MINISTER. 41 


“What tribe is this, my friends, wishing ye 
well and godspeed ?” 

A young man among them arose upon a signal, 
and with strongly guttural patois replied for the 
company, 

“Weare Jael-Ishmael’s—the stars o’ershadow 
and prosper his remaining years,” 

“‘T have heard of your chief, a man of wisdom: 
others nearer my own country have spoken of 
him. My name may not be unknown to your tribe ; 
I am aware secret communication exists between 
your people over the whole land relative to their 
friends and their enemies. Iam Westley Garland!” 

At the name the whole company bared the 


AXA 
Ws 


head, many arose; old women, sitting remote un- 
der the trees smoking their pipes by themselves, 
came forward with a flowing dialect the people 
alone understood, but with a kind expression - 
of countenance that lent rough charm to their 
swarthy faces. Sturdy men crouched alongside 
their asses, stretched, yawned, and joined the 
group; beautiful black-eyed, ruddy-cheeked boys 
crept up, and girls bobbed from under the tent 
and hooped cart: the flickering glare of the fire 
in the centre imparting colors to their brown skins 
that the old Dutch painters would have seen with 
enthusiasm. , 


42 


“ Your name is known to us,” replied the young 
man, dignified and respectfully. The Minister 
scattered some silver among the children, shook 
hands with the young man, and when he had said 
a kind word to most, 

“We are going to have a look at the manor, 
and we shall return by the road; therefore we 
are not likely to see you again. Good-evening.” 

The young man drew the Minister a little on one 
side; he had something to communicate. 

“Tf you meet Jael-Ishmael, for he is yonder— 
an old patriarch of the silver beard—be upon 
guard. Our people are your friends, Jael-Ishmael 
is your foe!” And, as having said no more when 
pointing the direction of the manor than intima- 
ting the nearest approach, the young man fell 
quietly back into his place upon the moss, and 
commenced to smoke. Startled, perhaps a little 
annoyed, Mr. Garland walked quickly on, the 
child’s warm hand lying tremulous as a bird in 
his, for its owner shared the timidity of children 
when too close upon the nomads. Why on earth 
or under the stars Jael-Ishmael should be his foe 
puzzled the good Minister exceedingly. 

They came upon the house long after the last 
flushing of ruby on the stone griffins at the gates; 
the tangle of flowers had folded their petals, and 
presented an array of spears as though guarding 
the quiet domain. Italian terraces, part crumbled, 
and every where clustered thick with creepers, 
ivy, and wild convolvulus. A great stone basin 
and bronze fountain, the dolphins maned with 
bind-weed, the lizards leasing the stone for an 
amphitheatre. Nymphs, fauns, satyrs, Cupids, 
Parcs, more dressed than since their creation—a 
green spun drapery veiling the figures, as though 
the garden really couldn’t stand it, now left to 
itself. Arbors so netted over, entrance was im- 
possible. Garden seats, mouldy, rotten, despair- 
ing, having waited so many years for somebody’s 
patronage, and fallen down at last upon the high 
grass of the lawn. 

The vulgar of the village said that if ever Lord 
Lindon did return, Old Smith, the bailiff, would 
catch it! 

Reuben was not popular. He had a mill—peo- 
ple would not send their corn, preferring one four 
miles away ; but out of bravado, when the wind 
was right, Reuben set the mill going, and ground 
for the poor at quarter price. If nobody sent, he 
would set the sails going all the same. Reuben 
said his lordship would never return, and it was, 
“Nowt use trimming up the garden for the vil- 
lage to stare at.” 

So Lorry Vincent had a delightfully romantic 
time of it in the big garden, and his pale mamma 
moved curiously among the deserted wealth, ap- 
pearing in all sorts of unlikely corners, and al- 
ways seeming to have one of her bright, cautious 
eyes over her shoulder, on the alert for any thing. 

Mr. Garland had been contemplating it for some 
minutes in silence and with sadness. It touched 
a chord in his own experience, perhaps. Then 
his little companion said, 

“What do you think of it, Sir? Is it not a 
curious place ?” 

“Not more so than one*would suppose, having 
been unoccupied so long.” 

Passing round to the back, they saw a window 
open. 

‘Oh, I should like to see inside; I’ve heard of 
such beautiful pictures !” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“T do not expect we shall be trespassing very 
seriously if we do look through a room or two, 
but there is scarcely light enough for pictures.” 

And they entered, trod dust thicker than car- 
pets of the loom, and stood amazed at the lofti- 
ness of the hall in which they found themselves. 
A great lantern with colored divisions, bearing 
medieval subjects of knightly interest, was there 
suspended, and would light both the hall, grand 
staircase, and corridors above; it was incrusted 
with dust and woven of cobwebs. Chairs had 
the crest of the Lindons carved upon the backs, 
and a shield facing the principal entrance bore 
the emblazoned arms of the family. Right and 
left were doors, and peeping in, they saw gold and 
crimson velvet papering, where the dust had 
lodged a design never contemplated by the 
draughtsman ; and paintings upon the walls— 
Eastern art chiefly—landscapes crimsoned with 
mighty redness, as by heat; sand tracts, glowing 
skies, and little water; luscious fruit and great 
sensuous flowers that seemed swooning in the 
sun; pagodas and temples of arabesque, with the 
palm drooping to the chalice of the lotus, as by 
wan thirst; and a crowd of flowers, oleander, arc- 
totis, hyssop, magnolia, passion, tamarisk, orange, 
and cactus, lying with faint petals curled hot 
against the walls. Over the chimney-piece, so 
placed the twilight crept up to the grand face, 
was a portrait with HreLen, Lapy Linpon, upon 
the gilt of the massive frame. It was not West- 
ley Garland’s style of beauty—too imperious and 
haughty a type—but he looked on it with inter- 
est, for from her came the sorrow of the Lin- 
dons; and the defiant, queenly beauty, dark it 
seemed as Cleopatra’s, filled the chamber with a 
lurid light that drove back the redness of the 
east, and left the landscapes pale in their obtru- 
sive glare. Or it might be the deepening of the 
twilight. It was becoming so shadowy in the si- 
lent house, the little girl begged to be taken away. 
They walked, as it were, with muffled footsteps ; 
not an echo seemed to disturb the deadness. A 
flight of three steps, and the open door of a con- 
servatory of capacious size that had sometime 
opened to the garden. They stood and looked 
through the glass an instant. Then did Westley 
Garland start back as though stung by an adder. 
Through the glass he was confronted by a face— 
a truly patriarchal and most venerable counte- 
nance, with long locks of silver, and a beard that 
trailed down to below the. girdle; a vagrant cos- 
tume, over which an old cloak, the garment once 
worn by elderly men; a palmer hat, and a long 
staff which the figure was too erect and command- 
ing to lean upon. It was the revered chief of 
the gypsies, spoken of by name as Jael-Ishmael, 
and this man’s foe. But why did Westley Gar- 
land start appalled if Jael-Ishmael was unknown 
to him? Because he recognized the eyes con- 
fronting him. Those eyes once seen by mortal 
were unforgotten this side of the grave; they 
were the eyes that wrought the trouble of the 
Lindons—the eyes that vanquished the original 
of the portrait upon which Garland had just been 
gazing. 

Without word or indication of significance, the 
gypsy (in whom the reader no doubt detects that 
versatile genius Mr. Barnard) walked gravely 
from the conservatory, away by the wilderness of 
flowering shrubs and over the lawn, the high-tan- 
gled grass of which was swept by his ragged 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


cloak until the heads bobbed one to another 
gracefully, after bending low at his passing. 

As though fascinated, Westley Garland could 
not withdraw his gaze. Imagining him lost in 
one of those poetic reveries which so greatly im- 
pressed her, Rose did not attempt to break the 
spell; it was a ruder hand that performed this 
mission—a thickset, brawny man of the most un- 
pleasing type, of the farmer-miller species, who, 
striding upon the scene with no gentle footsteps, 
desired, roughly enough, to know their business. 

“No business at all, friend; rather pleasure. 
Visitors at the adjoining town, we have taken an 
idle stroll hither, and ventured to enter, knowing 
something by repute of the paintings. Perhaps 
you will tell me why you inquire so authorita- 
tively ?” 

“ At your pleasure. Iam Reuben Smith, bailiff 
and overlooker to his lordship the master, now 
away in foreign parts, and yonder’s my mill by 
the lock. You came in at the window ?” 

“ At the window, Mr. Bailiff, for which accept 
my apology; but really the place seemed so de- 
serted.” 

“‘ And it’s his lordship’s pleasure it should re- 
main so; I will therefore thank you to allow me 
to fasten up.” 

Mr. Garland acquiesced with his agreeable 
smile, and was about to step into the garden, 
when a sweet-faced lady, dressed with unassum- 
ing yet withal elegant neatness, was seen ap- 
proaching, accompanied by a boy with one of 
those lovely faces we come upon so seldom, to 
whom Nelly Rose immediately ran, shaking hands 
very warmly, and introducing as— 

“Lorry Vincent” and “ Lorry’s ma!” The lat- 
ter bowed with considerable grace, her pleasant 
tongue running on, her widowed eyes looking 
all sorts of amiable telegrams, her little hand 
playing with the tassel of her garden parasol; 
and all the tinge watching with that curious cat- 
about-to-spring effect inseparable from this charm- 
ing person. 

“From Brighton! Ah, I know you by name 
very well; I read one of your works from the li- 
brary; forgive me, it was a grand theme, grandly 
interpreted. And you like Brighton? I don’t; 
noisy, slightly vulgar, every month except No- 
vember. The beach simply abominable, shingle 
and chalk. It seemed to me Brighton was re- 
markable for two features, churches and hotels. 
You were not at Brighton when I formed that 
opinion, or I should have included a third, gen- 
ius! No; I love the quieter nooks upon the 
sea-board, such, for instance, as we may discover 
in Devon.” 

Observing him start.as with sudden pain, she 
went off at a tangent to something else. 

“You suffer from neuralgia, now I’m sure you 
do! I understand the nervous sensitiveness of 
such a nature. Perhaps caught cold once in that 
very county, and the name revived painful recol- 
lections. Oh, it’s a distracting complaint! Lor- 
ry, dear, leave off pulling Miss Blake’s curls. A 
pretty child, Mr. Garland; but I wouldn’t ex- 
change my boy for the loveliest girl in Europe, 
he’s so tender and thoughtful. Do you think 
him like me? No! More does any body else; 
they can not, Mr. Garland, he is so utterly like his 
papa! Bless the man, what is he following us 
about for?” This point-blank to Reuben, who 

‘ducked very like a poacher overtaken in the 


43 


covert; but came up square and fierce, however, 
facing the lady, his self-possessed antagonist. 

“Tm waiting to lock up, mum! Not of course 
to hurrry you and your friends!” 

“Mr. Lorry will see that all is safe, Sir,” she 
answered, haughtily. ‘Would you care to look 
over the old place, Mr. Garland ?” 

‘No, I thank you; I must be getting back to 
my hotel. I have to give a reading this week, 
and should regret causing disappointment through 
hoarseness ; I am rather susceptible to cold.” 

‘‘T knew it!” cried Mrs. Vincent, triumphantly, 
“and damp!” A curious shudder shot through 
the Minister’s frame; Mrs. Vincent must have 
been a little right after all. 

“You will call and see us at the Cottage any 
morning?” And as she gracefully tendered the 
invitation, carelessly poising the sunshade on the 
tips of her fingers, she seemed the embodiment 
of elegant hospitality. 

“Thanks, my stay is a very short one; I may 
not visit Sleperton again.” 

“And do you return with Mr. Garland, my 
love ?”” to Rose, who replied, “I think mamma 
goes back with Mr. Garland, ma’am; I shall go 
with her.” 

Lorry’s large eyes lifted to the Minister’s face 
with an appealing prettiness, as to implore that 
his playmate might be spared to him as long as 
possible. 

“Don’t you like Lorry’s mamma?” asked the 
little one, zngénue, on the way home. With char- 
acteristic honesty Mr. Garland answered, “No, 
Rose, I do not like Lorry’s mamma.” Although 
why, it might have puzzled him to tell. 

Twilight time arrived, the weirdly impressive 
hour of the gloaming, and Garland and Rose 
wandered hand in hand upon the beach, far from 
those stragglers dotting the shore to the fore of 
the town. In Brighton he could not thus have 
roamed with the child at that solitary hour without 
provoking remark. This unfettered liberty was 
enjoyed to its fullest extent ; and, seemingly over- 
come by some powerful emotion, he pressed the 
little girl to his heart, imprinting a swift kiss 
upon her lips; then, recovering himself immedi- 
ately, and gathering all within the compass of a 
buttoned coat, he said, quietly, while Rose curled 
her hand back into his, 

“You are fortunate, Rose, to have a good fa- 
ther to love.. He is fortunate to have such a dear 
little girl to love him.” 

“Tlove you too.” Rose said this without af- 
fectation ; she meant it. 

“Thanks, Rose. You can offer me nothing 
that would give me greater pleasure; so I am 
thankful, Rose, very, very thankful.” 

“You shall have it all; no one else shall have 
a, bit.” 

“Not even Lorry ?” 

“Oh, that’s all nonsense; just the pleasure a 
girl takes in playing with a handsome boy; but 
I never think any thing about that sort of thing; 
as mamma says, ‘I could trust Rose to keep a 
boarding-school in order ;’ that is the reward of 
being innocent!” And with a mischievously de- 
mure air, little Rose looked playfully up in his 
face; but he was gazing with thoughtful sadness 
out to sea, to the west, following the jagged coast- 
line; right away to where it was hollowed and 
indented into coves and bays; to where steep tors 
rose clad with dusky verdure, amidst which peep- 


44 


ed forth the villas of family and domestic com- 
fort; and where a stately hall was desolate and 
silent as the grave. 


It is the night of the Dramatic Reading, and 
five minutes before the entrance of the Reader. 
That eccentric but magnificent interior, the Pa- 
vilion Dome, was very early, indeed long before 
the opening of the doors, beset by eager crowds. 
At moderate computation half as many people as 
are here assembled were unable to obtain admis- 
sion. Within, the immense concert hall is trans- 
formed to a court drawing-room; it is a very 
garden of brilliant color, and it seems that every 
lady who has a pretty mantle to sport, and a 
tasteful head-dress to wave its plumes amidst the 
lace, has passed through the arabesque portals 
this evening. 

The buzz of conversation is at its height, and 
criticism is in full play. 

‘Society does not assemble in this distingué 
order every evening, my love, so make note of 
any thing very pretty; but truly, although the 
toilets are choice, I do not see a really good- 
looking woman!” Thus an esthetic and exceed- 
ingly plain mamma to the elder of five «esthetic 
and exceedingly plain daughters, to whom this eld- 
er Amazon acted as a sort of aid-de-camp. They 
sat all of a row, plover fashion, and gazed around 
with an air of pity and commiseration. They all 
went to Mr. Garland’s church, where they sat 
plover in one of the front pews. They are shock- 
ed at the vanity around, especially at the bloom- 
ing of so much scarlet, their own dainty shoulders 
being incased in white Shetland. They can not 
reconcile this frivolous following of a spiritual ad- 
viser with the principles of true religion; they 
would not be here to-night were it not for “ The 
Mariners ;” they have eschewed the world long 
decades since, and made a present of the old bones 
to Heaven—and to Westley Garland. They have 
a splendid situation; were among the first to trip 
with their guineas to Cramer’s, and select it from 
the plan; and they have been stationed at such 
an outpost by the aid-de-camp that the great 
man’s eyes must rest upon the impressive party. 

A little removed from these, cynical Sir Perti- 
nax, who has been unfortunate this summer over 
turf and baize, and who takes life to be a mistake 
and fashion a bubble, is reviewing Society with 
thoughtful sarcasm. The stout, somewhat florid 


lady next him is of opinion that he is an unpleas- 


ant person. The lady has broad bands of gold 
upon her wrists, and sight of the tantalizing met- 
al acts as irritatingly upon him as scarlet upon 
the inevitable bull, when one is taking a short- 
cut across the meadows. 

Two others sit apart, who dote upon music; 
they come to-night, never having seen the lion ; 
and being of an opposite religion, can not attend 
upon Sunday where he is to be heard and seen 
every seventh day. They are of opinion no read- 
ing will ever approach an organ recital for soul- 
inspiring and sympathetic eloquence, and they 
sit looking at the fine organ, one of the chief glo- 
ries of this chamber, and talk melodiously to 
their hearts’ content. It really seems they know 
so much about music, nobody else can know any 
thing. A virgin, who has attuned her dulcet notes 
to many lyres, leans a little forward, and drinks 
up all their fine phrases with the eagerness of 
some rapt Lesbian. They are both men, and one 


‘4 MODERN MINISTER. 


is married, for he says, “‘ My wife plays the vio- 
lin like a seraph!” Whereat the virgin—virgins 
being below seraphs—collapses visibly ; while he 
of the noble sex, to which belonged Amati, Stra- 
divarius, Guarnerius, Guadagnini, Paer, Paganini, 
and other of the Cremona band, went on to re- 
mark that it was thought the seraph in question 
would develop into a Neruda. His companion, 
who was evidently not married, remarked, “If 
the Pavilion gardens were in my hands, I would 
have lanterns, as they do in the East—just a few 
tasteful colors glowing like fruits of the Hesperi- 
des, a revival of the Baden twilight triumphs, 
when Strauss set the nations spinning by Taran- 
tula weirdism of the Lilienkranze;”’ which re- 
mark established him an associate of Apollo and 
the sacred nine of Parnassus. 

Observe the grand dame to the left, fanning 
herself with languid elegance, which is one of 
the most difficult of the acquired arts. She is 
extremely accomplished, and loves talent in oth- 
ers—as do all truly accomplished people; exalts 
intellect, particularly when allied with eloquence ; 
and, although saying little about it, considers 
Westley Garland somewhat overrated ; but then 
she does not go with the crowd. The glint of 
her bracelet plays upon the pearl-gray silk, the 
pink-tipped plumes upon her erépe chapeau flutter 
to the breath agitating this garden of plumes. 

Yonder is a dark beauty of the Spanish school ; 
notice the fall of deep lace, the dead gleam of gold, 
the embroidery of jet, the simple yet sumptuous 
elegance; she enjoys this grouping of fair wom- 
en, for she has the true artist eye of the south ; 
she enjoys this palace, which might have sprung 
from among love legends of Granada; she recalls 
glories of the Escurial, sweet moonlight walks in 
gardens, mountains stretching dim and shadowy 
away to old Segovia, when chanting of the monks 
from within the palace lent dreamy sanctity to 
the hour. She asks for our Pgvilion chapel, 
thinking of that within their own palace near 
Madrid, with its fifty altars of crowded jewels, 
its eight organs of silver—all tuned together for 
praise—its tabernacle of gold and jewels, sixteen 
feet in height. She wonders when told our 
Prince Regent was not that way inclined, and 
that even this fine interior, in his day, served for 
stabling the first stud of Europe, and wonders 
still more when told that the chapel where the 
luxuriant Fitzherbert lies is one of remarkable 
humility; so she drops the subject with the grace- 
ful tact of southern natures, and enjoys our fruit 
and flowers, as she enjoyed them by fragrant 
ways in Leon, Gijon, Aragon, and Murcia, when 
a courtly gentleman brought her stephanotus, and 
murmured her name in the love-low accents of 
Valencia. She is here this evening, not because 
Society is here, but because this Protestant of 
the impassioned beauty and poet’s eye recalls the 
courtly lover of the sunny port. 

Remark that impulsive little body so superbly 
dressed. The novelists and dramatists as a rule 
dress their women well, but we seldom see a cos- 
tume so becoming, and we attach nobility of the 
first water. She is alone, defiant in her richness, 
coldly indifferent, save to envious slant looks 
which cause her cheek to tingle. Royalty af- 
fronted! Not at all! She is a popular favorite 
of the Odéon, who here passes the recess, closes 
her bijou chateau a while, ang reposes in priva- 
cy; composed, yet observant; she will not gather 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


much from our barbarians—as she terms these 
showy folk—an inkling of eccentricity, a tint or 
two of coarseness to be utilized by her consum- 
mate talent; a glimpse of elegant vulgarity she 
will color into a study all Paris will devour; a 
display of robing which may cause her to shudder 
slightly, but will bear transposition into a style 
that may set the fashion for many an evening to 
come. 

Beside her sits a plain lady descended from 
many earls; she is rising like Amphitrite from 
billows of semi-pellucid gros grain of a rich onyx 
and eau de Nil blending, whereon point d’_Alengon 
foams from bosom to skirt; the actress is pleased 
to look down the surf and the waves, and to pro- 
nounce the costume—ezécrable! The lady is un- 
conscious if male or female be beside her. 

A duchess and party attract notice, simply for 
their severe neatness; precise and quiet, bound 
without gilt edging, in neutral tints. They might 
be taken for a comfortable family out of the wilds ; 
but be not deceived by appearances; these peo- 
ple could lay this Alhambra with solid plates of 
gold, and never feel the loss. Observe them to- 
morrow—not on the King’s Road or any vain 
drive or promenade, but in the unfrequented paths 
beyond the township, where quiet villages nestle 
midst clefts of the downland, and where the whirl 
of wheels is rare. It is a mulberry chariot, quite 
of the old school, and, like the family vault, mass- 
ive to annihilation ; of course, sight of the family 
is impossible when imbedded down among the 
leather and velvet cushions; but sometimes they 
sit bolt-upright, wonderfully erect for their ages, 
especially when a man is seen beating a don- 
key, or a dog running with its tongue out. At 
such times they look as ier as those placid 
faces can look, occasionally stop the coachman 
and inquire into it; but they are careful not to 
give any thing away, being of opinion that it en- 
courages idleness, and devoting their surplus do- 
nations to drinking fountains, cats’ hospitals, and 
similar philanthropic institutions. 

The family in mourning are the cream par ex- 
cellence of Norman descent ; they adhere to Brigh- 
ton or Hastings for ancient family associations, 
dating from William of conquering fame. They 
are in costly sable, and intend wearing it beyond 
the complimentary term, in consequence of its 
being so becoming. They do not mourn after 
the received school, experiencing magnificent con- 
sciousness of the honor conferred upon heaven 
by “our representative.” 

The dark man with the curly hair is considered 
very fascinating; attaché, poet, traveller, aristo- 
cratic Bohemian ; he has lived every where, chiefly 
in the East; says this Pavilion is a pill-box to the 
Cotsea Bhang on the Jumna, with its wilderness 
of aromatic flowers, and its fountains in the midst 
of groves of mango, lime, orange, guava, tamarind, 
and pomegranate: talks much of Ramisseram, and 
has drawings of Constantia, the quaint Pavilion of 
Hindostan, with its stucco fret-work and Chinese 
barbarism, and retinue of scarlet lions ; its hideous 
crowding of Gothic towers and Grecian pilasters, 
Mussulman brazen pyramids, Arab pinnacles, Chi- 
nese pagodas, Hindoo columns, and all the pageant 
of the eccentric in architecture. He rattles on 
with his palace talk, comparing our Regent to 
Shah Jehan, who built him a dream in Delhi, but 
who outshone our Prince by reason of his greater 


magnificence, his gardens costing one million ster- 


45 


ling. Therein flourished Asia’s choicest flowers ; 
the marble walls were laid with plates of silver ; 
galleries of lattice-work blazed with emeralds and 
rubies, so disposed as to present the appearance 
of clusters of grapes in different stages of growth. 
He wears a superb specimen of the Gloire de Di- 
jon, and he will tell you he brought the tree from 
those gardens; of course nobody believes it, but 
they take his roses all the same, for the rose from 
any other garden smells as sweet. 

‘‘T don’t see a really stylish figure, do you, dear ? 
If not quite as advanced as the New York blondes 
whom Mora and Sarony photograph so charming- 
ly, we do see style in Brighton. But there, my 
love—look at that girl, a duke’s daughter we used 
to visit, but I really couldn’t tolerate that absence 
of style any longer! Heigho! If she does not 
alter that figure, wherever she will be put when 
she gets to heaven is more than I can say!’ Thus 
chatters old Lady Angular, whose absence of sym- 
metry amounts to severity, and whose taste is 
considered mildly Moorish. 

“‘One scarcely likes to sit here’in the full blaze 
of that chandelier; I remember the time when 
gallantry held girls sacred, and the eyes of the 
other sex drooped before youth and innocence.” 
Thus the Hon. Deborah, a venerable spinster, to 
a bosom-friend, another venerable spinster, and 
both of this parish: both also of Society. 

There is a long man with a thin face, the lon- 
gest man with the thinnest face in the room; he 
crosses over to the man from India; they are 
club-mates, have each written, each sketched ; 
and kneeling upon the fauteuil, the thin-faced 
man tries to outtalk the other upon Society in 
Bengal, Madras, Bombay, Burmah, and that over- 
run tomb-and-temple tract stretching from the 
Ganges to the heart of Punjab. The thin man 
invites the other to his bungalow, as he calls his 
pretty box set between hills, where in the hall a 
tiger of his shooting glares upon you, with high 
grass peering up behind the furniture from pots 
set upon the Indian matting. His rooms are 
plentiful with gorgeous screens of plumage his 
unerring shot robbed from tropic forests. He 
has left behind—at the seats from which he comes 
to talk a while with his friend—a dark-skinned, 
pensive girl, an orphan, the only child of a schol- 
arly European long settled in the East. She is 
very sensitive, not at all at home by this machine- 
bordered Aigean ; disliking the cliff with its long 
train of coolly criticising school-girls, who make 
fun of her brunette beauty and rich coloring of 
dress, and sighing for the Piazza descending to 
the Hooghly, where the little children of Garden- 
rich sing in the low light of evening, among the 
white and purple cactus bloom. The walks and 
drives about Brighton are so different to the wealth 
of verdure amidst which her girlhood sported ; 
the poppies growing in the corn fields recall the 
vast sweeps of scarlet plantation that belted the 
hills, where they sketched beneath the banyan 
groves; the blue bloom of this sea brings back 
rich waving fields of indigo, beside which she wan- 
dered, searching for lilies on the Ganges bank; 
and this Pavilion, with its minarets and domes, 
causes old Benares to rise before her, the Mecca 
and the Rome of Hindoo-land. Suddenly there is 
a hush in the conversation. It betokens an ar- 
rival of more than ordinary interest: not Royalty 
—Royalty does not go to Brighton—yet evidently 
a grandee, compared with whom these pale their 


s 


46 A MODERN MINISTER. 


lustre. Ebenezer Wriggle insinuates himself 
among the rows of seats, Josiah Bubb comes 
bustling up, and Mr. Lurch marches pompously 
as though about to take the chair. As a matter 
of accuracy, somebody has to be turned out of 
the chair, for an audacious young man, either 
fraudulently or unintentionally, has placed him- 
self in the seat of error; and all the Tonic Ale 
and Pickles, Sauce and Buckram, rise indignant- 
ly as the three great municipal officers advance 
to clear the way; and round the circle, in the 
wake of these, a maid of agile movement fol- 
lows, bearing upon her arm a shawl gorgeous 
with gold and color. Immediately behind the 
damsel comes a gentleman with a white cravat, 
bearing a cushion of considerable size, which he 
adjusts with much care in one of the chairs. 
Then appears a gentleman in plain evening dress, 
preceding and ushering to her seat perhaps the 
most queenly woman who has ever been thus at- 
tended. Of course Society is too well bred to 
stare, but it does the next best thing—looks on 
the slant. And a very erect and haughty appear- 
ance is presented of a graceful and beautiful 
woman, but beneath whose beauty is an expres- 
sion of sadness that must touch any heart, were 
it not for the cold and repelling hauteur. Soci- 
ety is too taken up with observation of the lady 
to notice her companion with more than the most 
cursory of glances. It is an elderly gentleman 
of shriveled appearance, sallow, with thin, light 
locks, and a little fringing of whisker seemingly 
hesitative which color to take to, drab or white. 
Most of those assembled know her to be Lady 
Helen Darrel, and the gentleman, vaguely alluded 
to as “ His Lordship,” is popularly supposed to be 
her ladyship’s father. These seated, that excite- 
ment is quelled, and people settle down to watch 
the platform for the Reader’s appearance. The 
thin-faced, long-bodied man from India says Au 
revoir to the curly-headed man from the same 
quarter, both, of course, looking with vivid inter- 
est at the last-named group, one of them feeling 
sure he has seen the old man somewhere in the 
jungle, while the other distinctly remembers dan- 
cing with “that superb creature” in Calcutta. 

A gentleman walks up to the platform, ascends 
the short steps, and stands before the people, and 
the outer circle applauds vociferously, but ceases 
abruptly when it is discovered to be merely the 
individual with the water bottle. Having placed 
this to his liking, and raised the reading-stand to 
the height he deems appropriate, he retires. A 
pause. 

Then the Rev. Westley Garland walks upon the 
platform, and with a gentle inclination of the 
head, in response to the cordial welcome which 
echoes round the Dome with spontaneous hearti- 
ness, he takes his place at the reading-desk, open- 
ing a black-covered manuscript book with inten- 
tional slowness, to allow the noise to abate. 

Some notice that his regard for applause is 
very slight, so slight they fancy he does not hear 
it, or is lost in thought. Others remark his at- 
titude to be systematic and regular, and pro- 
nounce Garland a very business-like fellow in- 
deed, very! Not a few fall into quiet side studies 
of the face, chisel the aristocratic profile upon 
memory, cut a portrait cameo of a kingly type, 
and from the picture derive many after-musings. 
Those who are partial to tracing the poetry to be 
found in a few rare faces, revel over the soul 


stamped upon these aquiline features. Some 
few fancy they have met him somewhere, before 
this Brighton era, in quiet select circles far beyond 
the pale of Society: they fancy so, but can’t re- 
member where. One or two are almost sure he 
was at the University when they were there; they 
are not quite certain, but seem to recollect the 
face, although so aged and altered; and they go 
humming and drumming, “Garland !” “ Garland !”” 
and get nothing out of the name, and so give it 
up, particularly when he begins to read. Every 
thing in the hall is given up then; there is no 
resisting the spell of that wonderful voice, and 
the most idle chatterer there desists, to listen. 

Richly modulated; yet the secret of success 
was more the result of feeling than of art, all 
musical, sonorous, sweet, or sympathetic; the 
voice thrilled or moved, and at times compelled 
the heart to follow it; it was no ear-melody this, 
but language sinking deep into the soul; all 
the cunning of master eloquence never imparted 
graver charm (on no occasion was he ever known 
to interpret comedy); tuneful, harmonious, and, 
above all, unutterably tender: showing that there 
may be words more exquisite than songs, and mu- 
sic more lovely than the throb of harps. 

People had speculated and wondered upon 
the probable subject of Mr. Garland’s selection. 
Would he read something appropriate to the 
mariners? would he please with some descrip- 
tive picturesque poetry of the wild sea-girt life, 
or move them to tears over some idyl of homes 
left husbandless and fatherless, while brave men 
confronted furious legions of billows? or would 
it be some gentle love-note, some sweet rhapsody 
of cerulean days, or perchance a poem of the 
country, dog-roses and bloom of the May, honey- 
suckle and odorous limes ? 

No, it is a simple chronicle, so simple it seems. 
strange these ultra-fastidious people can be found 
to sit so patiently; nay, they are breathless, 
absorbed, spell-bound. Merely the story of a sail- 
or, bluff and honest and good-looking, who loves 
a lass and longs for her, but is too poor to wed, 
and waiteth issue of the fisheries, she all the time 
beloved by another who would do this one an 
injury. At last their little savings are induce- 
ment to unite, and both are happy, and the sun 
beats broad upon their sea. But that other, by 
circuitous ways, brings trouble, and their store 
exhausted by treacherous waves that rend the net 
and crash the bark, they are brought to sorry 
straits and get in debt, and from bad to worse, 
when the crisis comes, and the fisher disappears 
—drowned, say the wise, which the foolish ac- 
cept—and the home stands empty with poorer 
hearts, a mother and child, and a wolf prowling 
round the walls. . 

Like a clarion note the reader’s voice rang 
with the divine injunction: “‘Help the poor! 
wherever met, wherever found, help the poor! 
Go forth to succor those bereft of their protector, 
those beset with peril, encircled by enemies; 
help the defenseless! There are mothers and 
children abroad, shelterless under the wide sky, ° 
no glimpse of hope any where save in each oth- - 
er’s love. Rescue them, restore those homes, 
replace those friends; there are the helpless 
hungering for a word of kindness, drooping 
for need of care—search for them, seek near, 
seek far; they are pining for your help!” And 
people thought he had done well for the mari- 


A MODERN 


ners, this impassioned speaker, so unceremonious- 
ly breaking the thread of his theme to advocate 
this strong sympathy with the oppressed. Then 
he resumed his plaintive story, and his audi- 
ence followed its innocent dramatism, point to 
point of the quiet yet intense piece of weaving, 
and the power of the chronicle lived in those 
fixed looks, composed attitudes, straining forward, 
hand up to the ear of the aged, silent attention 
of the young. The spectacle of that audience 
was no uninteresting study, the mass of people 
hanging upon one man’s utterance, that intel- 
lectual and refined speaker exerting his every en- 
ergy to awaken kindly feeling and sympathy in 
the mixed assembly present. 

Once or twice he lifted his eyes ; to rest once— 
when dwelling with infinite pathos upon the child 
of the story—upon his little friend Rose. At an- 
other time, upon the upturned face, like a mask 
of marble, of Lady Helen. He caught the eyes, 
became entangled therewith, and put them from 
him as things that burned. 

The Reading was divided into three sections, 
the second division being poetic; each division 
was complete in itself, each extending to between 
half and three-quarters of an hour. He was not 
niggardly with his genius when dispensing for a 
charitable purpose. It was a memorable even- 
ing, remembered by more than the mariners whom 
he had befriended. 


eee 


CHAPTER XIV. 
SKIRMISHING. 


“ Meteors about, I think!” and Mr. Barnard 
pointed to the sky, a flash of light suddenly at- 
tracting attention. “If you will permit me, Pll 
take a turn upon the lawn? This phenomenon, 
like the Aurora Borealis, is very interesting.” 

‘“‘ By all means,” said St. Aubyn, looking anx- 
iously in the direction of the weather-glass, “I 
fear we shall have a storm to-night.” 

He passed out, bare-headed, and, as though con- 
scious of the direction, walked swiftly to that 
spot where the shrubs edged the cliff. He heard 
a footstep to the right, and crouching like a beast 
of prey, Mrs. Brandon passed him close, muffled 
and stealthy; there was a strong scent of turpen- 
tine, spirits of wine, oil, and other inflammable 
substances upon her trail, and the man in am- 
bush smiled grimly, and, when she had passed, 
leaned and looked down. There, far below, a 
torch, of impromptu make, still guttered and 
flickered fitfully upon the cliff where it had fall- 
en, sufficient, however, to reveal the clinging fig- 
ure of a man, who, completely overhanging the wa- 
ter, gesticulated and signaled for assistance. A 
yacht was lying off almost within speaking dis- 
tance, the moonlight broad on its white sails and 
deck, where a man outstretched at ease was 
smoking and looking at the stars; from this it 
was evident the man in extremity had not been 
seen, nor the torch which Mrs. Brandon had hurl- 
ed from the height as a beacon. Save for this 
flickering light, all the steep was clothed in dark- 
ness, while the yawning cavern at foot, where 
never man had entered but by boat, was hidden 
under the surf. Calmly, as preparing for his 
couch, Noel Barnard removed his faultless broad- | 
cloth and stood as faultless in his undress. The 


MINISTER. 47 


torch had lodged midway between the man and 
the summit; it was not half consumed; did that 
lonely star-gazer but turn his head an inch in the 
direction of the cliff, the man must be seen, would 
be rescued; it was Noel Barnard’s purpose to 
prevent this. It was perilous to a suicidal de- 
gree; but that weighed last with the daring 
schemer. He sat upon the brink, and, lowering 
one of those lithe sinewy hands, tested the under- 
growth; it stood a vigorous pull. Then he tried 
the surface with his heels for a ledge or promi- 
nence; the face was uneven, rough, and jagged ; 
he turned round and commenced the difficult 
process of descent, holding hard to the growth or 
buttress where the rock clove the outline, plant- 
ing his feet where practicable to save weight ; so, 
lower, lower, beat of the waves sounding more 
shrill every yard he descended, the strong wind 
breasting the height as though it would dislodge 
him like thistle-down, and causing the flambeau 
to flare with a redder, wider light. Near this the 
lowermost man (who could toil no lower, but 
must drop, failing his hold, into the seething cal- 
dron) was swinging like some ghastly pendant 
to a gibbet; and away in the distance was the 
yacht, light as some fairy bark, its owner dream- 
ily wreathing the stars in clouds. Nearer the 
torch, it seemed but a hand’s breadth, and al- 
ready the height above seemed a journey to be 
done by flight alone; now by accident dislodging 
pieces of the stone or earth, which fall and alarm 
the victim, who, looking up, sees the dread form 
of his enemy gaining upon him and banishing his 
only hope of rescue, and, drawing breath, he shouts 
again, and this time with wild despair; but before 
the echo of that harrowing cry can have travelled 
to hearing of those on board of the vessel, the 
torch has been seized.and is quenched. And 
then commences the more arduous part of Noel 
Barnard’s mission; he does not intend to return 
yet, for his work is but half accomplished. He 
has to descend yet farther; he has determined 
to complete both deed and doom; and the man 
below, although he can not see that form, steal- 
ing unerring as a deadly red-skin on the trail, yet 
feels it is approaching, and nerves himself for 
the death-tussle, when one or other, or perchance 
both, must go down to the depths. But it is a 
long time approaching, or it seems so, in that 
time of terrible suspense; only the falling mes- 
sengers give awful warning. At last the pursuer 
has turned round, and like an immense lizard ad- 
vances head-first ; and in the darkness the white 
reptile hand glides down and loosens the other’s 
grasp, and uproots the last hold to which in his 
agony he now clings with both hands. There is 
a crash, the growth gives way, man, plant, earth, 
stone, falling like lead; the lizard pausing to rest 
upon his ledge, and turning with sardonic relish 
the whole morsel:under his tongue. Shortly, he 
upon deck coming down from his dreams, stretch- 
ing his legs, awakens his skipper, and pacing the 
deck, takes his promised view of her home by 
moonlight; hoping, yet scarcely daring to hope, 
for a glimpse of the lovely form at one of the 
chamber windows, and sees something that causes 
him to snatch up the glass and again inspect the 
frontage with the closest attention at command. 
There, at an upper window, standing between the 
darkness and the brilliancy of the apartment, is 
a figure which he imagines to be hers. As it 
moves he remarks the same dress he had seen in 


48 


the evening, and a lace scarf thrown over the 
head falls above the shoulders; she notices the 
movement with the glass, and kisses her hand 
to him thrice, then holds her arms forth appeal- 
ingly, as though imploring release, lifting them 
heavenward, and in the direction of himself, and 
clasping them despairingly upon her bosom. A 
touching and effective tableau, and well done; at 
least such was the verdict of Mr. Barnard, who, 
walking across the lawn, cool as though he had 
but just left the supper-room, re-entered, brushing 
knees and elbows with the finest of lawn hand- 
kerchiefs, and looking with mild reproach at 
Williams : 

“Why not have warned me, friend, I should 
catch my toes? So you play croquet ?” playfully, 


_ toLena. ‘“ And a charming exercise; very pret- 
ty, very! Did you ever play the game by moon- 
light ?” 


Soon afterward Mrs. Brandon enters quietly, 
and resumes the jelly with frank composure. 

“ Head better, I trust, ma’am ?” Mrs. Brandon 
bows gracefully to the visitor. The head is a 
little better, and she thanks him for his kind 
sympathy. 

“But the meteor!” says St. Aubyn, mischiev- 
ously. ‘Let us see this fallen star, Mr. Barnard.” 

That gentleman removes from a coat-tail pock- 
et, with the gravity of a geological lecturer in 
Jermyn Street, a flint nearly as large as a plough- 
share, and sedately quotes: 

‘‘T have no doubt, my dear Sir, but that this is 
the subject of our speculation. It is well known 
that flint forms avery rare constituent of the fire- 
ball proper, which mainly consists of iron, nickel, 
and other minerals; but I take this to be an excep- 
tional case. Just handle this, Mrs. Brandon; you 
will do me the favor of agreeing it is altogether 
exceptional. I look upon this as a most remark- 
able aerolite; this night will be long remembered. 


When I discovered it, the thing was hot, and I 


burned my fingers, a common fate in the pursuit 
of science.” 

“T really know so little of the sciences of geolo- 
gy or mineralogy; botany is more in our way, is 
it not, my dear Miss Lena?” and with a very 
charming smile, the lady returned the specimen, 
with many thanks. 

Meanwhile, out at sea, the young yachtsman 
was puzzling his handsome, idle head over the 
curious action of the young lady in whom he ex- 
perienced so warm an interest. After twisting it 
about, he construed a sign out of it: this lovely 
and unfortunate girl was unhappy, miserably im- 
prisoned by a stern, unnatural sire, whose brain 
was half turned by foreign suns and book-read- 
ing. She had seen him pass at sunset-time; had 
expected his return; had joyfully beheld the yacht 
again where it crossed the moon-line; had ap- 
pealed to him with a sublime hope. Oh yes! He 
saw it all; he was appointed the knightly cham- 
pion for her deliverance; he accepted his destiny ; 
he breathed a prayer. 

“Brown, the whiskey !”” 

The skipper, refreshed by his nap, produced 
the keg with alacrity, remarking upon the chilly 
moisture of the air, that went straight to the 
bones subject to rheumatism. This little matter 
Mr, Arden dismissed with his accustomed liber- 
ality ; he was generosity from crown to sole. But- 
toning the rough pilot coat upon his chest, he 
walked the deck with briskness, muttering to him- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


self about a select company of historic person- 
ages who had succored damsels of high degree, 
stowed away in dragon-guarded castles, with a 
hydra-headed ogre as chief of the firm. Where- 
on skipper Brown, finding himself not wanted, or 
not admitted to this new fancy of his young mas- 
ter’s, peered through the glass into the shady 
groves, and presently espied something clamber- 
ing or trying to clamber up the wave-broken rock 
at the entrance of the cave that, black and for- 
bidding, formed a hideous arch consecrated to 
night. 

“Yer pardon, Mr. William ; what be that a-steer- 
ing yonder ?” 

Arden took the glass, drew himself leisurely 
forth from his reverie, and looked. There was so 
much moonlight it became difficult at first to dis- 
tinguish. A clear bright night, clear as when the 
frost bites and all the land is bound, while the sea 
drinks up the snow-flakes, or casts them indiffer- 
ently from her, fringed with her foam. <A veil of 
silver seemed spread dim and ghost-like, stretch- 
ing leagues, torn in places where the wind had 
caught it, splashed and sprinkled, and bestrewn 
with a-spray of diamonds, 

“List, Mr. William ; ’tis a shout !” 

“Tt’s a man! How the deuce did he come 
there? Overtaken by the tide, probably.” 

“You give orders for picking him up, I sup- 
pose, Sir?” and the skipper paused anxiously. 


ere 


CHAPTER XV. 
RECOUNTS THE ADVENTURES OF “‘ WALTER GORDON.” 


Wiru slow and toiling footsteps Walter Gor- 
don entered the pretty village, long after dusk 
had robbed the trees of color and shrouded the 


‘old church tower in gray perspective. 


Little children, peeping forth before going off 
to bed, saw the dragging progress along the vil- 
lage street, and murmuring, “A tramp!” went 
away to dream of its white face. A wagoner stood 
in the doorway of the ale-house, and just looked 
up from his pipe; lights were behind the red cur- 
tain, and the window shone cheerfully forth from 
the pale background. The forge was closed; the 
smith, lying upon the grass-plot of his garden, 
played with his boy; bits of iron and an array of 
horseshoes stuck in the grass, emulating pastime 
the child had seen through the Rectory palings. 

The village school-house looms like some Gothic 
toy; a light at the upper window betokens the 
retiring to rest of the estimable mistress. Be- 
yond this the Rectory stands back in its shadowy 
grounds. 

There are diverging lines of cottages; several 
better-class dwellings, with five windows and a 
door, and a formal plot of pelargoniums and ge- 
raniums, with box or gentian borders. 
more ambitious has a wooden sailor and a minia- 
ture cannon, which the youngsters regard with 
becoming awe. 

There is a scattering of still superior dwellings, 
of the “contract” villa species. These are ten- 
anted by Seaborough traders, and afford an agree- 
able change, with salubrious addition. And there 
are outlying farms, rural and hospitable, with 
snowy sheets bleached on the hedge-rows, and 
wide old chimney-pieces, below which one may 
sit to count the stars. — 


One > 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


_ And there is a large old place standing back 
from the village green. It is surrounded by 
trees, and has a great garden track to the front 
and to the rear, where all seems going to weed 
and seed. This is Sleperton Manor, and Walter 
leans wearily against its quaint approach. 

The old house of which the aged countryman 
had told him! And the child—for he seems lit- 
tle more—gazes upon the massive frontage with 
that languid interest a weary wanderer takes in 
the association-haunted piles of forgotten ways. 

Beyond this is a charming cottage, low-pitched, 
pine-built, fragrant through summer and winter 
seasons: picturesque ever, and from all sides an 
artist’s study. This is The Cottage, Mrs. Vin- 
cent’s retreat—a bijou mixture of art and luxury. 

Lorry Vincent stands by the gate while Walter 
passes, and their eyes meet. 

“‘ Are you looking for some house ? 

ou?” 

And the boy with the lovely face leans forward 
over the gate, with the kindest and most winning 
smile imaginable. 

“Thank you. Can you tell me of any house 
where I can obtain shelter for the night ?” 

‘J do not know of any apartments to let. Just 
now, while the season lasts, is the busy time at 
Seaborough. In winter there are plenty almost 
at your own price. I dare say you have walked 
from the town, and are tired ?” 

“J am very tired. I have not been well of 
late.” 

“T do feel for you. Itis so bad to be a stran- 
ger in a place, and unwell !” 

Walter thrilled to the sympathy ; his eyes droop- 
ed before the handsome orbs bent so admiringly, 
yet all pityingly, upon the face he felt to be very 
worn and pale. 

“Your words are like music; it is long since 
I heard kind voices.” 

“Poor fellow! What shall I do to assist you ? 
Where can you go? But come in and sit down 
to rest. I am sure mamma will not mind. She 
is listening to the band now.” 

Saying which, the boy unlatches the gate and 

holds it open for.the stranger. Walter grateful- 
ly accepts the proffered rest, and together they 
enter the cottage. 
_ A fair-faced, rather delicate youth, this Walter, 
with a profusion of blonde curls short to the 
head; a slight, symmetrical figure; a small white 
hand, which of itself would bespeak his gentle 
breeding ; a timid, shrinking manner, indicative 
of extreme sensitiveness; and a tone of voice 
which, while sweet, was sad. 

The gentleness which won upon the old man 
earlier in the evening now wooes Lorry Vincent 
to a friendship strong and true. 

With infinite tenderness he removes the cap 
from those clustering curls, and brings a ewer 
and towel. <A boy is so thoughtful, so ready, so 
considerate! Say—oh! ye mothers with one such 
—is this not so? Are not theirs the lissom fin- 
gers to perform those acts of loving service so 
dear to you, and of which you think long after in 
the still small hours? Are not theirs the quiet- 
er footsteps when your head throbs painfully, 
and all the world seems jarring on your nerves ? 
And theirs the lowered voices, until the very air 
seems quivering with their sympathy ? 

They are not all alike, but some are exquisite, 
and of this order was Lorry Vincent. 


Can I help 


49 


The gratitude welling up in the clear, eloquent 
eyes of the other may move him, for he hurries 
to bring wine and biscuits for this tired wayfarer 
so little older than himself. Then he sits down 
and looks with troubled interest at the trembling 
one. It is long since kindness has touched this 
heart, while all who have encountered it have 
pierced, bruised, and wounded it, after the man- 
ner of the world! 

Their acquaintance improves very rapidly. 
Lorry is pleased. With the exception of Harry 
Abbott’s son, a charming boy picked out for his 
particular friend, he knows of none to whom he 
would give the full treasure of the first-fruits of 
his loving friendship. He has never met with 
any one like this—so quiet and gentle. He can 
not tell why, but the voice thrills him ; and those 
eyes, timorous as the eyes of some startled fawn, 
drooping before the strong hazel of his own, 
cause his cheeks to tingle with the first pleasur- 
able sensation of his life. 

“Tell me, who are you ?” he murmured, softly. 

“One without a friend!’ answered the other, 
while the eyes filled with tears and coursed down 
the delicate skin. 

“But who are you? Tell me.” 

“T am known as ‘ Walter Gordon;’ but I be- 
lieve even my name, like all else about me, is 
uncertain and doubtful. Iam a nobody; yet my 
whole soul, my every hope, point to high and 
lofty aims. I have been unfortunate. The guard- 
ian who had care of my infancy and youth be- 
trayed every trust reposed in her, placing me out - 
cheap with common work-people, and devoting 
the money allotted her for my maintenance to 
other uses. The humble home which thus be- 
came my portion was in time broken up, and I 
was cast a helpless waif upon the world.” 

“How sad! I have read of such cases in 
books. And you have really gone through all 
this ?” looking with renewed interest at the re- 
fined young face. 

‘*‘ All,and more. For, listen—the remainder is 
soon told. I was taken in hand by a hard, stern 
woman, who placed me at a small school; I sup- 
pose to be out of her way while at work, her os- 
tensible business being the making of artificial 
flowers. But she was connected in some way (as 
dresser, I believe) with one of the London thea- 
tres. In time—I was then ten years of age—I 
was compelled to join others at the theatre, 
where I suppose my face, happening unfortu- 
nately to be passable in my looks, made me wor- 
thy of a conspicuous position, and I was always 
placed foremost in the groupings. This bore 
fruit, for another manager bid money for my 
services to play a page in his burlesques.” 

“Yes,” said Lorry Vincent, thoughtfully, “you 
are very good-looking.” 

And standing over Walter, he patted the curly 
fleece with affectionate solicitude. 

“This resulted, when I was thirteen, in my be- 
ing apprenticed for five years to a large travelling 
circus company. The new life was a hard one. 
Some of the men were kind to me, others unfeel- 
ing and cruel; and one was very brutal, and used 
to beat me.” 

Master Vincent shrugged his shoulders, and 
took the hand of his friend. ; 
“Sometimes gentlemen used to come behind 
the curtain, and not always for the best of pur- 
poses. One of these befriended me, inte»posing 


50 


between that cruel man and myself. He spoke so 
kindly to me, I loved him from then. I met him 
after the performance, when it was dark and no- 
body saw us, and he gave.me a sovereign to get 
myself little things he knew I needed. He said, 
‘If ever you are in trouble, and want a friend, 
come to me,’ and he gave me his card. I have 
never forgotten him, although I doubt not he has 
long since forgotten me; and I have come to try 
and find him here, and see if he will be again my 
friend. The work of the circus was too much for 
my strength. Willing enough, I could not do 
more than nature permitted ; no allowance was 
made, and I was beaten with severity. I could 
bear no more, and left them; but fatigue and 
privation, following upon my other hardships, 
brought on illness, from which: I am but now re- 
covering. And I owe much to the Christian wom- 
an who took me in, ministered to me, nursed me, 
nourished me, and gave ‘me the means of reach- 
ing London.” 

“There are not many of that sort about, I im- 
agine.”’ 

“This was one of the Society of Friends, which 
may account for her broad charity and goodness. 
I went to London, to the gentleman’s house, and 
to my disappointment learned he was down here 
for a month. I had not sufficient money to bring 
me here; besides, how did I know my errand 
would prove successful? But I had /fazth, with- 
out which we should pass wretched lives indeed ; 
and I hoped on, that strong staff to lean upon. 
I don’t think him a good man, but—he was kind 


to me; and those who, like him and that dear |. 


lady, and yourself, have been kind to me, I can 
never forget.” 

Master Vincent blushed and his eyes drooped— 
compliment was new to him. True, Nelly Rose, 
his sometime sweetheart, had whispered, “ Do 
you know, I think you are so beautiful!” To 
which he had replied, ‘‘ For that no credit is due 
to me,my dear. I have a beautiful mamma!” 
And it had gone in at one ear and out at the oth- 
er; but this, said so sincerely and with such evi- 
dent gratitude, touched the boy, and he looked 
down and made no reply. 

“There was nothing I could do but partly en- 
list the housekeeper’s good-will. I told her suf- 
ficient to lead her to advance me a few shillings; 
and now that I am here, my object is to obtain 
some kind of shelter for the time being—until he 
will take me into his service, or procure me some 
situation.” 

“Nay, do not trouble about turning out to- 
night; we have vacant Fooms} and if that’s all, 
you shall sleep with me.’ 

The blush that dyed the other’s cheek lent ten- 
fold charm to the delicate prettiness. 

“ Before we go on any further, let me explain 
something. It is a secret; but you will keep it 
for me; it is for my safety’s sake. I am so fear- 
ful of being taken again by those circus people, 
who, I suppose, can claim my services for the 
time I was apprenticed.” 

“JT don’t know much about it, but I suppose 
they can. Tell me your secret. I will keep it.” 

“Thanks, Sir; I am sure I may rely upon your 
promise. Jama girl. I took this dress, which, 
so often playing page, well fitted me, the better 
to escape discovery and insult; I left in its place 
my few poor savings; I would retain the dress, 
if possible, for I feel safe in it.” 


A MODERN 


MINISTER. 


Master Vincent had edged a little away during 
the naive revelation, feeling any thing but safe 
himself. 

“‘ Well, you do make a good boy,” he said, look- 
ing over the piece of art blushing there before 
him, “and I think you will escape detection for 
some long time to come; but how bold of 
you !” 

“The suffering I went through made any thing 
better than returning to that life. I am afraid 
the boldness, as you call it, partakes more of that 
desperate struggle for preservation we are to be- 
lieve is the first law.” 

“How you talk ! 
lege.” 

“My college has een a hard one, in which 
there were more blows than books, and more 
kicks than half-pence !” 

“* How old are you?” 

“Not fifteen yet, and so tired of it all.” 
with a sad smile that, with the mournful voice, 
was inexpressibly pathetic, the unfortunate child 
leaned her head back upon Lorry’s shoulder and 
burst into tears. 

“Come, come, do not cry; I will be your friend; 
your brother; you want a nice big brother like 
me to fight your battles; and I can fight for a 
cause: you should see me tackle Reuben Smith 
about the manor.” 

“Can you tell me how to act ?” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t depend. too much upon this 
gentleman ; look to your own efforts more. 
the-way, what is his name ?” 

“Sir Charles Neville!’ Master Vincent start- 
ed. ‘Do you know him ?” 

““Mamma does; he is always flirting with some- 
body or other. For goodness’ sake keep out of his 
way; Lam quite sure he will never be any good 
to you. I ean’t bear the man.” 

“Do you know of any situation I could take?” 

“Well, after what you have told me, it is a cu- 
rious thing to recommend. There is the large 
school near to the sea—a young gentlemen’s 
school; they are in want of a page-boy there; I 
heard our servant say so; but then, you know, it’s 
a hazardous sort of place for you.” 

“T don’t mind that, if I can only get it. Is oie 
any other ?” 

‘Major Howard wants a ‘tiger ;’ 
Charles visits there.” 

“Ts there no other ?” 

“Mr. Simcox, the curator of Seaborough Muse- 
um, wants a boy to give out books from the Free 
Library. What sort of boy are you at running up 
a ladder ?” 

Lorry was himself again, merrily, wickedly mis- 
chievous. His companion, smiling faintly, an- 
swered, 

“Not very quick, I’m afraid.” 

“Well, then, there’s my friend Harry’ S papa; 
I dare say he would take you to learn the farm- 
ing. He is so good, he is; I am quite sure, could 
he hear the circumstances of your case, he would 
dispense with the premium; but what would be 
the good of it all? You couldn’t do that work ; 
it would be too heavy for you; and I don’t know 
that my friend Harry Abbott would not find it 
out in time; and I don’t think J should like you 
always being with Harry, because I do take just 
a little interest in you, you know.” 

This was a very pretty scene, could any one 
have peeped in thereon, and a fruitful essay 


You might have been to col-— 


By- : 


but then Sir 


And |. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


might have been read of this young acquaint- 
ance. 

Lorry walked to the window. The shades had 
deepened ; the evening star shone like some gleam- 
ing gem; over the yellow-blossomed pastures the 
note of a nightingale quavered with silver clear- 
ness; up from the sea stole its fragrant night- 
bloom, blending with the incense of a hundred 
gardens ; some mother in the village was lulling 
her little one to rest with a low vesper of the 
nursery; from the old church just by rolled the 
faint echo of a hymn the organist was practicing 
for his next Sabbath’s praise; a soft pastoral 
hush pervaded the scene, and it was very sweet 
to this child of many wanderings. 

“ How late mamma is! 
come in ;” and the boy returned to his new friend’s 
side. 

“Tt is very happy to have a Hedy mother, to 
look for her coming, and to hang upon those mo- 
ments when in her company. I have had no 
mother’s love to brighten my dreary life.” 

“Have you no recollection of either of your 
parents ?” 

“Oh yes; of both. Dim as a dream comes 
back a certain dreadful night when I was taken 
up hurriedly from my cot, carried in my mother’s 
arms to a carriage, and driven off with great 
speed. I remember it so distinctly because my 
mother had always awed me by her studied grace 
of movement and deliberate action. To me she 
had ever been too full of majesty for love to dare 
to venture near; therefore that precipitate flight 
created an impression all these after-years have 
not served to erase.” 

‘“‘How strange! I shouldn’t wonder if you be- 
long to some noble family ; it often happens thus, 
at least in the novels and ig) eae I get from 
the library.” 

“Walter Gordon” smiled with erave sorrow, 
and looking out far into the gloaming, said, 

‘“‘T am afraid there was as little nobility as loy- 
alty about it. I would give any thing to know 
the story of my birth. Often do I recall my fa- 
ther’s face, so poet-like and handsome was it. I 
never read of King Solomon but my father comes 
to mind. I believe he was wise; I know he was 
wealthy, for our home with its great chambers 
was like the country dwelling of a monarch, so 
sumptuous, so stately, so ancient. I can recall 
the carved mantel-pieces I used to stand upon a 
stool and try to reach; and the stained window 
on the landing of the oak stairs, through which I 
watched that star, first one color and then anoth- 
er; and the dusky library, with bronze busts of 
the philosophers ; and the conservatory opening 
from the dining-room, over the chimney-piece of 
which apartment I can just see through the haze 
of years a splendid portrait of my mother.” 

Gradually, step by step, during this revival of 
her childish memories, Lorry’s face had been 
slowly turning ghastly. With open mouth and 
staring eyes he followed the narration, rising inch 
by inch from the couch, and he now laid a hand 
upon “ Walter Gordon’s” arm with an excited 
and appealing gesture. 

“That willdo; don’t sayany more. You must 
be going; mamma must not find you here, and 
she will be home almost directly.” 

The other looked astonished at this sudden 
change, and arose tremblingly, wondering what 
' new trouble was in store. — 


“I wish she would 


51 


“Tt is not safe for you to remain—and hark ! 
That is the garden latch; come this way, quick !” 
He led the frightened child out by the back of- 
fices, and then, pointing over in the direction of 
the deserted manor, entreated her to run there, 
pressing a small key into the hand he shook with 
loving heartiness, 

“T will come to you some time to-night. Do not 
fear; nothing willharm you. You will find match- 
es and a lantern upon the inlaid table as you en- 
ter at the small door on the west side. Good-by, 
my dear; let me give you one kiss—there! God 
bless you!” 

“Lorry! Lorry dear !” rang a sweet voice, while 
Mrs. Vincent entered at the front-door. “ Where 
are you, my child? I thought you would have 


‘come to meet me; but never mind; D’ve a gal- 


lant cavalier. Come i in, Sir Charles, how do!” 

“ Aw, very good of you, I’m sure; but I prom- 
ised faithfully to get back to the hotel. Still, I 
don’t mind a minute or two. Where’s the boy ? 
Ah! how do, Sir? Haven’t seen you on the pa- 
rade this evening.” 

“‘T have been better engaged, Sir Charles.” 

“Bless my soul, that’s good, too! Better en- 
gaged than listening to the town subscription 
band, and watching Society in this charming re- 
sort? Now I do like that; it’s devilish good, 
young Sir, and you’ve scored one.” And the bar- 
onet indulged himself in a little affected laugh, 
as he always did when any thing tickled him. 

“Do you know, Anna, that boy will grow up 
conceited, if you don’t check him; it’s a-aw, a 
horrid vice is conceit!” drawling which morality, 
the young aristocrat stroked his fawn mustache 
with infinite daintiness. Sir Charles presuméd 
upon long and intimate acquaintance with the 
fascinating widow, and always addressed her’ by 
her Christian name when alone. There were not 
wanting those who prophesied that this lady, 
whom they affectionately designated “the elegant 
schemer,” would eventually develop by natural 
transition, into the future Lady Neville. But 
then it was well known the baronet was a dreadful 
flirt, and nobody’s chance was certain; and this 
caused great concern among those who took a solic- 
itous interest in Mrs. Vincent and her affairs. 

Master Vincent had left the room; he did not 
enjoy the society of this brainless fop, and he 
was angry and jealous of his friendship with his 
idolized mother, whom, with all her graces and 
cleverness, Lorry sometimes thought very foolish, 
and, he was fain to admit to himself with sorrow, 
a little designing. And Anna Vincent could be 
more than this: hence his hurried concealment 
of “ Walter Gordon.” 

Fear winged the footsteps of that unfortunate, 
and within a few minutes of thus abruptly quit- 
ting the hospitable shelter of an hour, she stood 
within the spacious hall of the silent mansion. 

The place seemed so vast and so gloomy! 
Even after procuring the light, she half wished 
herself forth again upon the wide roads, or tak- 
ing refuge in the portals of some quiet village 
homestead where the family had retired to rest. 

She could not sit in these high oak chairs, and 
amidst the congress of shades trooping forth, as it 
seemed, to stare at her; and taking up the lan- 
tern, she approached one of the many doors that 
led to other rooms, and opening it, entered. It 
was a well-furnished apartment, once appropri- 
ated as a study; the blinds were drawn; a lamp 


52 A MODERN 


upon the table seeméd to have been recently 
used; books and current newspapers betokened 
that some one was in the habit of still reading in 
this room, and “‘ Walter” did not doubt but that it 
was her new friend or his mother. She felt more 
cheered by the discovery, and extended her re- 
search by proceeding to the chamber adjoining ; 
this, from the costly although dingy nature of 
the appointments, was manifestly the drawing- 
room. All the fittings of these old rooms were 
upon a splendid scale, and but made the desola- 
tion more complete. Somehow, while she looked 
upon them, a sense of bewildering consciousness 
of having seen the like before stole upon her, 
and she passed her hands before her eyes, trying 
to unravel the entanglement of dreams—it must 
have been in dreams she had seen them, for she 
had not entered any house save the most ordi- 
nary. 

Then it chanced that she opened the door of 
the dining-room, where the moonlight fell through 
a panel of rose-colored glass full upon the face 
of Lady Helen’s portrait above the mantel. She 
stood as one transfixed, all the misty pictures 
taking form and semblance; and when the un- 
certainty of her wonderment had cleared away, 
the proud yet beautiful woman came back with 
all the reality of a creature in the flesh, and un- 
able to resist the impulse, the slight and delicate 
child, so lonely in her desolate, abandoned mis- 
ery, knelt before that cold figure of her unfeeling 
mother, and the simple heart registered a vow 
that, founded upon her innocent faith, seemed to 
point to surer happiness than any other. 

“TJ will seek for my father!” she cried; “he 
will not cast me off; it was never by his will. No 
more looking for strange friends, or purposeless 
knocking about the great grim world. I will 
search for my father, nor ever rest until I have 
discovered, and cast myself upon his love—he is 
far too good and noble to refuse to help me. 
The master of this place, then, is my father, God 
only knows how. many miles away from here; 
but I must reach him somehow, and in spite of 
perils intervening— I, a runaway of the circus, 
and without a penny or advice. Oh, that my 
young friend would come, to advise, to help—” 

“T can do both, my child.” 

With a low cry, “ Walter Gordon” rose to her 
feet, and turning in the direction of the voice, 
shrank into nothingness before a tall and vener- 
able figure—imposing as one of Michael Angelo’s 
prophets. So commanding and impressive a cast 
of features she had never seen before, while the 
eyes of the patriarch covered her with confusion. 
Powerless as a bird, she could not look above his 
silver beard, descending with that august symbol- 
ism of age which imparts dignity and inspires 
reverence. 

“You seem in trouble. 
I advise you?” 

Commiseration was in the utterance; the child 
quivered to the kind expression. 

“J thank you with all my heart, Sir. I shall 
indeed be grateful for your help. I am alone in 
the world, having no home nor any where to go 
to—even here I am hiding, and the very beasts 
of the field are better provided for; but I know 
that my parentage is noble, and I am trying to 
trace out my father, who was robbed of me when 
I was a very little child—” 

It all came out, the full burden of her sorrow, 


May I help you? shall 


MINISTER. 


all but the revelation of her sex.. This man seem- 
ed so fatherly and dignified, there could be no 
risk in entreating his assistance. 

“Tt is in my power to aid you, doubtless. I 
am Jael-Ishmael, king over the gypsy tribes in 
England. You may join the band here stationed, 
if you will.” 

‘“‘Walter” shrank at the proposal; it did not 
seem any extensive improvement upon the circus 
life, this proposed casting in of lots with the no- 
mads. The venerable personage noticed her hesi- 
tation, 

“T thought it might provide you present food 
and shelter. True, ours is but a wild life among 
tents, but so much the more free, and the fact of 
our continuous travelling might aid your object 
better than remaining stationary. Should you 
know your father were he to cross your path ?” 

“Alas! no. I was so little, I fear I should not. 
I can but seek for that Lord Harold Lindon, once 
master of this house.” 

The other smiled a strange, quiet smile, which 
“Walter” took to be indicative of pity. 

“What are your wishes, Sir? For I must be 
returning to my people.” 

“Walter Gordon” reflected. It was certain the 
acceptance of either of those situations mentioned 
by Lorry Vincent could not facilitate the tracing 
of Lord Lindon, and what meant that mysteri- 
ous allusion to danger? She did not feel safe 
in Sleperton, and that instinctive and warning 
guide the supersensitive carry in their bosoms 
counseled departure now the opportunity offered. 
With a simple faith that moved the sage, although 
he did not betray emotion, “‘ Walter” put her small 
hand in that of Jael-Ishmael’s, and said, fervently, 
“T will go with you, and God will watch over 
me.” 

The king over tribes, without more ado, led the 
way by a tangled and bramble-strewn path to the 
wood. His introduction was singular, and took 
this form: 

“The lad will be the guest of our tribe a while, 
until I remove him to the work he may be fitted 
for.” 

Not long afterward Lorry Vincent entered at 
the western door, saw the lantern had been re- 
moved, and imagining his new friend was in one 
of the lower apartments, entered first one and 
then another, and was both surprised and alarmed 
not to find the child in whom he was beginning 
to take so profound an interest. He then went 
up stairs, went over the whole house, until, find- 
ing out the truth by that window opening upon 
the lawn, he looked serious, and closing his teeth 
firmly, while his face flushed with anger, said to 
himself, 

“That’s Reuben Smith’s work again!” 


ee ee 


CHAPTER XVI. 
AN ADVERSARY IS CHECKMATED. 


Ir was half past nine in the evening ; the mists 
were rising and gloom hovering above the Ser- 
pentine. Over the bridge which crosses the wa- 
ter nearest to Hyde Park Corner, people were 
idling homeward, a motley company of artisans 
and traders, of military, of showily robed young 
females, of well-dressed disreputables, of honest, 
care-worn work-women, and a few boys and girls. 


A MODERN MINISTER, : 


A gentleman was leaning against the iron-work, 
watching the passers-by with apparent indiffer- 
ence, but in reality with a keen, close scrutiny. 

This was Herbert Garston, and exhibiting some 
impatience, he opened a leather book, and taking 
therefrom a letter, he read it over by such dim 
light as sufficed : 


“ My prar Garston,—You will be surprised at 
this note—please apply my oft-repeated injunc- 
tion never to be surprised by any thing. My life 
has been a series of surprises and shocks, and I 
have not yet ceased being both shocked and sur- 
prised, as you shall hear—that is, of course, ad- 
mitting I am surprised now. If surprise were 
done away with, my dear boy, half the wicked- 
ness in the world would be banished, for surprise 
is the grandfather of impulse, and impulse is the 
parent of crime. But to proceed with the pur- 
pose of this note; and let me tell you, Herbert, 
if not surprised, I am disgusted. My house is 
watched by some vulgar spy; only think of a 
house in ¢hzs street, and with a Beresford in it, 
being watched! It strikes me your friend the 
secretary has found out what we are up to, and 
has in turn placed a watch upon us; but worse 
than that, he has actually thwarted me—Me, Sir— 
in buying that Torquay property and in securing 
the child. He has, I believe, contrived to obtain 
both; but I can’t write upon this—we must talk 
it over. Meet me somewhere—say on the bridge 
over the Serpentine, at half past nine, Monday 
evening—bridge nearest Hyde Park Corner. 
Don’t be surprised if I do not come. 

“ Yours, BERESFORD.” 


Mr. Garston replaced the note, saying to him- 
self, with a pleasant smile, 

“ Just one of his characteristic epistles, the 
dear old gentleman. No, I shall not be surprised 
if I don’t see him here. I wonder how long he 
has been back from Hertfordshire! And I shall 
have some news for him too. If he is not care- 
ful, this cunning secretary will find himself net- 
ted, after all; from what I know and what I sus- 
pect, I shall not be surprised if we trap him.” 

Mr. Garston was here surprised by a servant 
bearing a message from Mr. Beresford Travers. 

“Your pardon, Sir; my master sent me here. 
I was to give you this coupon; he is at the Opera, 
and will be pleased to see you in the box corre- 
sponding with the ticket.” 

Mr. Garston at once hastened away, and joined 
his friend behind the curtains of his private box. 

“T don’t know what you thought of my place 
of appointment, but I was anxious that we should 
be free from observation.” 

“‘T supposed so, and you thought this would be 
equally as appropriate and infinitely more agree- 
able. Good! But to the purport of your note, 
which gives me some concern.” 

“Who can this be but Noel Barnard, and what 
his object unless it be to discover if you came to 
me or I to you? It is infamous, Sir!” 

“Tt will not annoy you much longer—the man 
is making the rope.” 

Beresford Travers looked up at the dry, author- 
itative tone. 

(7 Rope e 

“That will hang Noel Barnard, Esq. Never did 
a more eligible tenant wait that becoming end.” 

“ Coarse, Herbert! But what do you mean ?” 


53 


“First, relate your story.” 

“With pleasure. I went down to Beresford, 
as you know. As usual, the old scenes moved 
me sadly. I could not stay any length of time, 
but just long enough to settle ‘stock and produce’ 
matters with my steward, and to call upon the 
Percivals, with whom, you may remember, I in- 
tended placing the little girl. Following out my 
plan, I lost no time in travelling to Torquay, lo- 
cated myself at the Imperial, and the first local 
topic I heard mentioned was the purchase of Ea- 
gle Hall by Sir Kinnaird Dalton. I walked over 
to look at my poor dear boy’s old home, and learn- 
ed from a cottager that Ella and her child had 
actually passed a night in that emptied house, for 
every vestige of furniture has been removed. You 
may imagine my feelings when informed of this; 
but the worst of it is, upon that very night both 
mother and child mysteriously disappeared, or, at 
least, were never seen to leave Eagle Hall. Now 
mark; upon the morning afterward, a tall, dark 
gentleman, said to be the secretary of the new 
proprietor, was seen in the neighborhood very 
early, long before the arrival of the first train, 
and—and—in short, I connect the two—” 

Mr. Travers paused an instant; his companion 
had listened to the record of progress with eager 
attention. The curtain had fallen upon the third 
act of the opera, and then followed the usual stir 
among the audience—the orchestra retired, there 
was flutter of fans and interchange of comment, 
adjusting of wraps and moving for refreshments. 
Lovers of music, who preferred it without ices on 
the one hand or stimulants on the other, closed 
their eyes, and again seemed to hear some choice 
morceau which had taken their fancy. The peo- 
ple who did not understand Italian were perusing 
the English libretto, endeavoring to gather sense 
and reconcile the probabilities ; and habitwés were 
discussing the respective merits of the popular 
favorites. People who attend these representa- 
tions for the spectacle, the mse-en-scéne proper, 
made note of the main effects; people who go 
to look at one another, commented with freedom ; 
and the inevitable couples who, doting on music, 
dote more on themselves, were intensely occupied. 
Those who visit the opera exclusively for the bal- 
let, and who are proverbially difficult to satisfy, 
thought it a wretched swindle to pay so much and 
see so little; those of the free list, who are a spe- 
cially fastidious class, thought they were, as usual, 
signed for a dull night; in fact, every where there 
was tasteful confusion, and every body seemed 
preoccupied with his own little gossip. With a 
cursory glance round, Mr. Beresford Travers re- 
sumed, Mr. Garston listening with close attention, 
and, as yet, passing no observation. 

‘““Walking about those sweet Devon lanes, 
round old Cockington Church, along Tor Abbey’s 
avenues, and over to that quaint yet pretty nook, 
Paignton, I seemed to hear Lionel’s voice again, 
singing one of those sacred melodies of which he 
used to be so fond, echoing between clefts of the 
rocks, and stealing along the coast-line. The poor 
boy’s voice haunted me with a reality startling even 
to myself. You are aware the Hall was the pri- 
vate property of Lionel’s mother. We had, as you 
know, passed many very happy hours in the neigh- 
borhood during my wife’s lifetime: it is no won- 
der, therefore, if the associations proved affecting. 
I now come to the point I wished to consult with 
you upon. Anxious to observe matters from the 


54 : 


distance, in such a way that my lord secretary 
should not suspect my proximity, I took up my 
quarters at a little inn at Paignton. How I pass- 
ed the interval between dining and retiring to 
rest, I don’t know, for there was only a local news 
sheet, a farmers”: almanac, a discolored map of the 
county, a list of fairs, and a stock-auctioneer’s 
bill wherewith to amuse myself. True, there was 
the alternative of joining the honest yeomen in 
the bar parlor over their market budget, but I 
preferred retiring early; these details will weary 
you. Every thing about my sleeping-room was 
scrupulously clean, the furniture old-fashioned, 
the chintz terrific; but my attention was taken 
chiefly by the chimney-piece, surely as quaint a 
construction as any in Devon, while a rumbling 
of the wind down the chimney was a mild edition 
of contiguous thunder. The wind increased in 
the night to such an extent I fancied old Boreas 
must have aroused himself in honor of my visit ; 
anyway, it prevented my sleeping, if it did nothing 
more. But after a while it did considerably more ; 
I was galvanized into sitting up in bed, scared 
and speculating, for I distinctly heard something 
blown down the chimney, not heavy with the sound 
of masonry, but more the rustling, tumbling, slip- 
ping noise of a parcel or bundle. Now I have a 
theory that people do not often put their goods 
and chattels up their chimneys, and it was not 
long before I had a light, examining the parcel, 
with that unpleasant sensation one experiences 
when prepared for the worst. If I did not dis- 
cover the worst, I revealed that which led up to 
a train of exceedingly unpleasing ruminations ; for 
there, rolled up and carelessly tied with string 
and bound round with paper, was a child’s frock. 
I examined the little garment, and in the pocket, 
Herbert, I found this handkerchief.” 

Mr. Travers handed his friend a small hem- 
stitched lady’s handkerchief, marked with the in- 
itials E. T. Herbert. Garston touched it rever- 
ently and returned it immediately; his head 
drooped a degree lower, and he appeared very 
thoughtful. Again he reserved comment. Mr. 
Travers continued : 

“You will imagine I had no rest the remainder 
of that night. With the dawn I was abroad, 
glad to meet the freshening breeze on Paignton 
sands—never was up so early before in my life, 
never want to be again, although, of course, it is 
eminently reviving for those who can stand it. 
Well, I went for a long walk, and returned to 
breakfast at my inn. Before entering, however, 
I walked over to a shop opposite, where furni- 
ture and carpets, pier-glasses and curtains, were 
displayed in the window. What for? you will 
say; the fancy occurred to me it might be well 
to inspect the exterior of my domicile without 
exciting attention.” 

Mr. Garston nodded approvingly. 

“One of the mirrors was slightly inclined, and 
from its position exactly caught the house where 
I had passed the night; and while apparently 
looking at the furniture exposed for sale, I mi- 
nutely examined the building thus reflected. One 
of the oldest of Paignton houses—the exterior, 
with its weather- worn sign and tawny bricks, 
was rather picturesque than not; flowers in fir- 
cone baskets, and a trail of the pretty thunber- 
gia half-way over the portals; narrow, lozenged 
windows, with low muslin blinds and chintz cur- 
tains; and—prepare, my dear boy, and guard 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


against surprise—at one of the windows a fig- 
ure that, unaware I was conscious of its pres- 
ence, was intently watching my actions: it 
was—”’ 

“ Le Diable?” 

Mr. Garston had spoken at last. 

“Yes; Noel Barnard!” 

“Ay, and he is watching you now; 
across !” 

There, in an opposite box, sat the mysterious 
man whom all their cleverness seemed unable to 
outwit: impassive as marble, merely studying a 
classical procession painted upon the proscenium ; 
a quiet observer, with a profile of strangely com- 
posed and thoughtful lines, a reserve of power 
firmly expressed about the brow, the mouth, and 
the eyes—without doubt the most noticeable fig- 
ure in the building. 

Anon, the stage was crowded by a chorus, 
which burst forth into loud strains of praise, The 
music of the act—the most imposing in the opera 
—caught the attention of even those least re- 
gardful of its melodious utterance, if the term be 
applicable to the majesty of Le Prophéte. It was 
the cathedral scene: with solemnity the proces- 
sion filed across the stage, the gentle strains with 
their impressive burden quivering in that lyric 
temple, as in some medizeval Temple of the Cross. 
With marked effect the scene had proceeded to 
the meeting of’ mother and son, even that calm 
saturnine spectator of the opposite box was 
pointing his lorgnette in the direction of the 
stage, when Mr. Travers leaned slightly over to 
Garston and remarked : 

“T must be going; I can not sit it out with 
that man confronting us. Tell me quickly if you 
are in possession of new data.” 

““T had better write you at an early opportuni- 
ty; meantime allow me to give you this. I can 
not understand how a man of Noel Barnard’s 
foresight could be so careless; it was picked up 
in his study by the servant I am employing.” 

He handed the old gentleman a slip of blotting. 
paper, indicating at the same time the miniature 
glass suspended upon the partition of the box. 
Held before this, the marks upon the paper took 
legible form, and Beresford Travers read: 
nigh & there is but one way..... the child must 
ee a I leave Torquay for town to 
stew Pd you will instruct Rolf to keep young 
Garston in....... Tam aware of Travers’s motive 

.possession of the child.......... meeting at 
the Seven Tuns on Friday night.” 

‘“‘Shall I keep this, or will you?” asked Mr. 
Travers, biting his lip. as he rose to leave. 

“T will place it with my other links in the 
chain.” The gentlemen quitted the box. 

The imperturbable watcher over the way, who 
had observed the proceedings with intense relish, 
merely twisted his lorgnette to a clearer focus, 
with the congratulatory apothegm— 

“T think that example of finesse could not 
have operated more advantageously.” 


look 


——_@————. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
GABRIELLE. 
Ir the reader at any time, in coming from the 


terminus of the Great Western Railway, has, by 
chance, accident, or design, penetrated the pri- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


vacy of Queen Street, Paddington, he may have 
been struck by the extreme gentility of that 
neighborhood. Two long terraces of white-front- 
ed houses; two long rows of gardens some horti- 
cultural society might have in its particular keep- 
ing, so neatly arranged is every flower bed, so 
carefully removed is each dead leaf, dry twig, 
large stone, and worm-upheaved mound; and two 
long lines of elaborately painted and richly grain- 


SENS 
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ens 


PS act DRE 


1 ec * 
DEAS ES 
SRS 

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55 


taxes not oppressive; there are no nocturnal 
brawlings, nor yet a public-house within a stone’s- 
throw; the dwellings are so pitched that there is 
every convenience for studying one’s neighbors ; 
and there is agreeable scarcity of itinerant vend- 
ors and mendicants, 

Half the residents of this calm quarter go to 
church; the other half sit behind the curtains and 
pass remarks upon the appointments and proper- 


ts EF 


fi 
IZ 


B24|l| 
oe | 


y= 


| 


a 


= I IV" | 
a ee 
A 


runt) apes 


y+} Pers 
4 
4 


St aa 


eee ee 


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: aay 


- eve 
t 


pS Se eee, — t 


== -- 
te- -_——— 


“AT THE PARLOR WINDOW OF NO. 9 IS OFTEN SEEN A FAIR, SLIGHT GIRL OF 
PREPOSSESSING APPEARANCE,” 


ed doors, with two long chains of highly burnish- 
ed knockers. : 

The coster fraternity avoid Queen Street upon 
principle; the barrel-organ never makes a descent 
upon its inviolate quietude; it is the haven of 
rest for people with distracted nerves, and it is 
much frequented by thinkers. 

There is advantage in residing in a street of 
this description. Rents are moderate, rates and 


ties of the devotional portion, after which they 
retire to shady back-rooms and sleep again. 

No piano, organ, or harmonium awakens the 
echo in Queen Street. 

We have business with the residents in two of 
these houses. Upon either side the way they are 
within view of each other’s windows. The post- 
al number says 9 to the house upon the right 
hand, 180 to that upon the left; both houses are 


A MODERN 


the pink of respectability. At the parlor window j 
of No. 9 is often seen a fair, slight girl of prepos- 
sessing appearance and remarkably lady-like man- 
ners. She is working sometimes, more frequently 
reading a manuscript; sometimes the fair, slight 
girl holds up sugar or groundsel to her bird, when 
it is remarked that her figure is symmetrical, her 
attitude graceful, her action endearing and win- 
ning. It is also remarked that when the sun falls 
upon that side, it circles about her head like an 
aureole—her beautitul brown hair, of the warm 
tone Titian loved, is always arranged with excess 
of neatness; that her dresses are of the quietest 
colors, with narrow tuckers of good lace ; and that 
she wears no jewelry. Sometimes, when bending 
over the manuscript she is so often reading, the 
clearly cut features take upon them the delicacy 
and refinement and thought familiar to us who 
love the Beatrice, the Joan, and the Lady Grey 
of Delaroche; yet are they mobile features, and, 
if intellectual and spiritual, are often lighted by 
vivacity and animation. Her cousin, George Per- 
cival, the writer of the manuscript, painting this 
fair being in one of his novels, thus expressed 
himself, “‘ Gabrielle, an almost ideal character, but 
sufficiently human to be interesting.’ Leave the 
description there; it is from the hand of a lover- 
cousin, and can not be improved upon by garnish- 
ing of fine writing. All these Percivals were 
thorough ; there was no shade of affectation about 
any of them; they came of a stock that despised 
the unreal; brave and honest and self-sacrific- 
ing, with hearts loving and true. George, the 
author-cousin, is the son of well-to-do parents, 
farmers down in Hertfordshire; the family had 
been tenants of the Beresfords for generations, 
and were regarded by Mr. Travers with much es- 
teem. George Percival lives with his uncle until 
such time as himself and the fair girl go forth, 
as these children do, to form a home for them- 
selves. They have been together from boy and 
girlhood, and in homely language their country 
friends have declared them cut out for one an- 
other. George Percival holds an excellent posi- 
tion as manager of the London and Olympian 
Bank; he has worked his way up to this, and the 
responsible dignity is deservedly merited. Nota 
young man in London is more respected by the 
directors ; and not only these, but also the gen- 
tlemen under him, hold George Percival in affec- 
tionate regard, for he is ever ready to help a 
young man on, and would at any time go out of 
his way to do a service for them or his employers. 
Thus, when their chief clerk was taken ill and 
died, he did the man’s work, in addition to his own, 
without a word, until the new clerk came—a re- 
served but diligent worker, named Stephen Miles, 
who gained Percival’s confidence by his steadi- 
ness and quietness. Come in when he would, 
Stephen was always at the methodical penman- 
ship: such principle wins favor of those at the 
head. Not long after the appointment of Stephen 
Miles—whose references and testimonials, by-the- 
way, were a mile long—a fresh depositor had been 
entered upon the books. The name was written 
Noel Barnard, Esq., 180 Queen Street, Paddington. 
It was not a large amount, one hundred pounds 
or thereabouts; sufficient to constitute the gen- 
tleman a depositor. 

One day the fair girl sitting at the window saw 
a neat little conveyance stop at 180. A quick- 
stepping horse, with silver harness, driven by an 


56 


MINISTER. 


expensively attired lady, parasol on whip, reins 
firm in hand, color on cheek, audacity in her eye; 
an elegant vehicle of bijou proportions, of fairy- 
like lightness, furnished throughout with the lux- 
ury of a boudoir, In the rear was a page, or 
tiger, with a fair girl face, lithe limbs, faultless 
livery, and wicked, laughing eyes bent upon the 
steed held in dainty control. It was a tasteful, 
albeit questionable conveyance, and people in 
Queen Street ventured upon little wagers with 
themselves anent the proprieties ; yet 180 was one 
of the quietest houses in the street, and the tall 
gentleman there resident, who was so seldom seen, 
the most decorous of all the genteel household- 
ers. There were lady writers of the quieter or- 
der in Queen Street, and these were of opinion 
this bold intruder upon their calm track was one 
of those daring novelists whose characters are 
all sketched from the improper point of view, 
whose scenes are vivid rhapsodies of the vicious, 
and whose journeying through life they imagine to 
be of this silver-harness and chiming-bells order of 
progress. 

The fair girl saw the lady enter the house op- 
posite, remain some little time, and return to her 
conveyance with one of the most eccentric-look- 
ing characters ever seen in Queen Street. He 
had never been observed to enter at 180, and no 
person knew of his staying there; hence this de- 
parture aroused commotion, and more than one 
tea-table was enlivened beyond precedent, some- 
what as follows: 

“ But who is he, my dear? And do you know 
any one who saw him go in?” 

“Alas! no; we can learn positively nothing. 
There is something vastly mysterious about the 
occurrence ; and yet he is such a nice-looking gen- 
tleman who lives there—so aristocratic and min- 
isterial. Do you know, I somehow fancy he is 
not aware of that person calling. Perhaps the 
strange-looking individual is his servant, and this 
woman a loose connection. Alas! we live in a 
wicked and deceitful world; but I do think the 
dear gentleman who lives there ought to be told 
of it, so pleasant as he looks, and so soft-spoken. 
Poor Bella is quite in love with him.” 

“Now I think he is a merchant in the City, 
probably, with a house in the country. We know 
he has something to do with the City, for we have 
seen him in one of the Friday Street warehouses 
when we have been waiting for papa,” 

“J think your papa said to my papa that he 
had a warehouse of his own, and that it was a firm 
trading under the style of Barnard, Rolf, and Co.” 

“Yes, in Indian produce, costly shawls, and 
such like.” 

“Perhaps the odd-looking man is Mr, Rolf?” 

“JT shouldn’t wonder.” 

Once, when George Percival returned home from 
the day’s duties, he brought Mr. Miles to dine. 
He was a colorless gentleman, and his hair might 
have grown upon one of the bank ledgers, so in- 
distinct was its shading. His eyes had a habit 
of turning up in the most extraordinary fashion, 
producing a creeping sensation upon the behold- 
er; however, as he seldom looked at any one, and 
rarely lifted his eyes, this was the cause of but 
slight inconvenience. His fellow-clerks account- 
ed for his preoccupation by supposing him always 
engaged in intuitive calculation. Mr. Percival, 
who was a reader of character, thought different- 


ly. Once the chief clerk had alluded in a rever- 


A MODERN 


ent, dimly affectionate sort of manner, to a wid- 
owed mother, and George, dearly loving his own 
kind-hearted Christian mother, away down there 
in Hertfordshire, judged by himself, and believed 
Stephen to have her health and loneliness at heart. 

Gabrielle Percival did not take to Mr. Miles. 
Perhaps it was the touch of his hand, which was 
cold and clammy; perhaps that odd look about 
the eyes, which turned her cold also; or it may 
have been the insipid and indefinite tints, for Ga- 
brielle liked some expression in a man: anyway, 
she kept as remote from Mr. Miles as politeness 
would admit. 

Do not suppose this pair of cousins tallied with 
the cousin-lovers of the novelists and dramatists, 
the stock relations who are so ardent in their at- 
tachment, so young and handsome, so recklessly 
impassioned. These good people were never ex- 
uberant in that way. They were neither of them 
under thirty; both of them possessed practical 
good sense ; both of them were patient and steady- 
going workers. Of the two, perhaps, George pos- 
sessed most romance in his composition, as was 
natural, being a writer. He had been rather suc- 
cessful with his books, and was beginning to be 
widely read, owing, doubtless, to the absence of 
vulgarity upon the pages, and the sensitiveness 
and refinement which he always considered supe- 
rior to breadth and effect. 

“You write a great deal, Mr. Percival ?” said 
Stephen Miles, after dinner, his hand upon the 
manuscript Gabrielle had laid upon the author’s 
writing-table. 

“Yes, I write; I find it pleasant and congenial 
leisure work.” 

“Ah! very pretty. Had I the brains, I would 
do the same. Of course you don’t write under 
your own name. Might I ask with what well- 
known nom de plume I may identify you? I 
should much like to read some of your work.” 

“Sorry to refuse you, but that is the property 
of my publishers; I am rather fastidious upon 
points of honor.” 

“ Ah, very right; I admire your principles, and 
while I agree with the reserve, humbly ask your 
pardon for the inquisitiveness. Your album, Miss 
Percival? Yes, very pretty ; I do like these col- 
lections of treasured family faces. Alas! we can 
not bring the departed back again; we can but 
preserve ‘the shadow ere the substance fade.’ ” 
And the visitor softly used a lizard-green pocket- 
handkerchief, giving his eyes that awful roll, ten 
times more electrifying than a thunder-storm. 

Mr. Percival was glancing down the review col- 
umn of a paper; the visitor had the album open 
at the portrait of a little girl, some distant rela- 
tive’s child, and this the gentleman was good 
enough to pronounce, 

“Very pretty—adds to the interest of any al- 
bum. You are fond of children, Mr. Percival ?” 

He was alluding to George’s well-known par- 
tiality for the little ones, who took all his stray 
coins and kisses, and regarded him as very like 
the prince of their dreams. The respectable wid- 
ow woman in charge of the bank offices had-one 
little girl, and being an amiable and pretty child, 
the manager made much of her. It was sweet 
pleasure to turn from the dry, matter-of-fact ac- 
counts, at such times as he left the office or bank 
parlor for the inner rooms, to the innocent poetry 
of the child. For to this higher-strung nature all 
the movements and manners of childhood were 


MINISTER. 57 


rhythmical and beautiful, and all the words and 
lisping and laughter were filled musically and 
with the tenderest of minstrelsy. 

George looked quietly up from the review. 

“ Yes, Sir; I agree with Southey that no house 
is properly furnished without them.” 

Gabrielle was engaged upon some plain sewing. 
She stretched the work and made it even and lev- 
el, and resumed her stitching. 

What a calm nature it appeared, as unlike as 
could be to those storm-shaken souls, with their 
emotional depths, one reads about and meets day 
after day ! 

Gabrielle well knew all George’s partiality for 
childhood. He had few secrets from her. To 
some extent she sympathized, looked upon it na 
large measure as an author’s hobby; and knew, 
moreover, the men of the City, plodding all day 
among the dull tracts where never a child is seen, 
were most of them child-lovers. So she listened 
pleasantly, and fell in with George’s views, and 
thought it a dainty, albeit extravagant fancy, 
when he, one evening, told her he should some 
day perhaps adopt a little girl. True, she had just 
looked up with the grave, kind eyes, and said, 

“ Shall I not be enough, George ?” 

Whereat Cousin George, all undisturbed, re- 

lied 
me Perhaps so; but you are different, you know ; 
grown up and wise and good—” 

“And a little old, George, to supply the place 
of a child in your house!” Said so quietly, with 
the plain sewing, like a down stitching of reproach 
and regret. 

“Well, of course one does not supply the place 
of the other, nor would we wish it to. A child is 
the completion of the charm of a house. Wom- 
an is the grace, the goodness, the wisdom, of home ; 
childhood its sunshine, its music, its beauty. I 
intend in my next book to have a child or chil- 
dren prominent in some ideal sense.” 

“T don’t think it will do, dear,” in the same 
quiet tone, shaking the head with gentle gesture 
of dissent. ‘‘ You are so fond of children, I fear 
you would overdo the theme. People are real- 
istic over this matter, and are rather jealous if 
boy or girl be exalted to the dignity of a hero or 
heroine.” 

“Nay, such is not my significance of promi- 
nence. I would ever keep children children, else 
would the savor of childhood be lost. But, seri- 
ously, you underrate the part they play in litera- 
ture and art. How does the introduction of a child 
soften a painting or a poem! And some of the 
best poets and most courted of painters have had 
their reputation created by their child-pieces. I 
remember Mr. Charles Dickens once saying, ‘ Chil- 
dren made my fortune.’ I do not think people 
are half so insensible to their charms, when in- 
troduced in the arts, as you imagine. I notice at 
the Academy the public are quickest caught by, 
and stand in greatest number before, the child- 
pieces. I have found upon the stage the most 
successful plays have depended upon child per- 
formers for those shadings of pathos and beauty 
which have taken hold upon the sympathies of 
the audience. I am told the greatest run upon 
novels at the libraries is for such books as con- 


‘tain the poetry of love in childhood; and I must 


say in life I think that it is a poor and common- 
place history if never influenced by a child.” 
“You plead the cause of your little favorites 


58 


with eloquence. I have no doubt there is many 
a child a comfort to many a heart not its parent, 
within which 7 alone preserves the human and 
the good.” 

“Thanks, dear, for agreeing with me so far. 
I thought you would, you are so sensible.” 

“ What will you entitle your work ?” 

“The other day, when coming home upon the 
omnibus, I passed a drawing-room window, where, 
upon a table, was some china, apparently of age 
and value. In the centre was a vase of delicate 
white and pink flowers. Seated by the window 
were two ladies and some pretty boys and girls. 
You know I weave something of every thing— 
the combination struck me, and I seized upon 
the title, 

FLOWERS AND CHINA, 
for my book, which should have a more signifi- 
cant depth than the mere ephemeral story of the 
hour.” 

“¢ Flowers and China —a quaint title. Re- 
minds me of Richter’s ‘Flower, Fruit, and Thorn 
Pieces.’ ” 

“Tt will traverse other ground. I select the 
title for these reasons: A Flower is the symbol 
of Youth; China, of Age; both, of delicacy and 
beauty. Life may be compared with a garden, 
or a collection of rare porcelain. It is all a pa- 
geant of color. The kinship of china and flow- 
ers borrows beauty of grouping: that is unique 
which is ideal by contrast. While Man—Wom- 
an—Child may be broken rhythm, and yet per- 
fect sonance, of an opera of love and pain; Man 
—Child may be the clearer yet less common 
strain, and the pain be crowned by love, while 
but a reed may lend the music. Life hath more 
features yet than books have chronicled, songs 
sung, or paintings idealized, There is that more 
bitter than loss, more desolate than loneliness, 
when the flower hath forgotten its perfume, and 
the china is robbed of its music. <A revelry of 
sweet shapes, a clustered glow of sensitive color, 
the ringing chimes of delicious vessels, sculp- 
tured symmetry of goblets and broad beauty of 
ewers, lily vases and a threading of silver, ceru- 
lean idyls by strong tracks of gold, dense purple 
and pale yellow roses looped and inmeshed in a 
net of forget-me-nots, a scattering of daisy and 
wild violet bloom upon the moss—I see a won- 
drous picture, idyl and poem, and composed of 
nothing but flowers and china!” 

She had let the work fall, and had given her- 
self to listening to this half-allegoric talk, in 
which he sometimes indulged during those pre- 
cious seasons of their being alone together, but 
which she more often read from his writing. It 
was all as a revelation to her, more full of the 
poetical than the practical, yet possessing a charm 
she would not have confessed to any one. 

Mr. Stephen Miles was still turning the leaves 
of Miss Percival’s album, when the master and 
mistress of the house arrived home from an aft- 
ernoon’s shopping. 

Mr. Percival, a genial and kind-hearted man, 
who had made a large fortune at book-selling, 
looked very naturally in a kind-hearted manner 
upon his nephew’s fancy for authorship, although 
he often counseled, “‘ Stick to the figures, George ; 
don’t write too much.” 

Mrs. Percival was a copious edition of the 
worthy book-seller; perhaps a degree less gentle 
in her manner, a degree less mild in her opinion; 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


but, taken for all in all,a not unworthy proto- 
type. Certainly the lady had prejudices; but 
then so have we all; and one of these prejudices 
took the form of an inveterate aversion to the 
reptilish ; any thing, as Mrs. Percival expressed 
it, from a cockroach to a crocodile, giving her the 
trembles. 

Thus, when her own warm hand encountered 
that so cold and clammy of Stephen Miles, she 
felt, as she told Percival later, ‘“‘as if her hour 
had come”—an effect that received its full force 
upon his turning the awful orbs with their most 
diabolic roll. From that moment Mrs. Percival 
resolved “that young man shouldn’t dine again 
at their table. Why, she would be dreaming of 
snakes and all sorts of viperous things for 
nights !” 

Mr. Percival, who had heard nephew George 
commend the chief clerk for his business qualifi- 
cations, was not thus impressed, and mildly told 
his wife it was another of her prejudices. He 
had combated them in his counter days, when 
the more cautious half deliberately declined open- 
ing an account with such of their customers as 
she did not like the look of. 

‘“‘But, gracious me! Never a one entered our 
shop all the time we were in business who made 
me feel so creepy as that friend of George’s, who 
is more like a ichneumon than a man, and with 
a twist to his eyes I'll see in the dark for nighis 
to come. I’m glad I haven’t money in their bank, 
for I'd never put any more in, I never did have 
faith in George’s judgment about people; he’s 
too wrapped up in his writing to be alive to the 
crawling things of the earth.” 

In the course of conversation the holidays were 
spoken of. George Percival had recently returned 
from a month in Hertfordshire; the other gentle- 
men of the bank were upon the qguwi-vive as to 
their own term. 

“You found it very quiet, Sir, in that part of 
the country?” And Mr. Miles indulged in one 
of those ocular displays significant of a picture 
of the quiet Hertfordshire tract held in reserve 
within. 

“‘T take interest, for home association’s sake, in 
all connected with the country; apart from this, I 
did not find the time hang heavily on my hands.” 

A curious change, all in a moment, flashed 
across George Percival’s face, the thoughtfulness 
seeming to give place to an expression of joyous- 
ness that died away again upon the instant; but 
not before it was observed by Stephen Miles. 

They were sitting by the window; the most re- 
freshing air Paddington yields in her border days 
between summer and autumn floated in among 
the flowers Gabrielle took such great pride over. 
A brougham drove up to No. 180, and the tall 
inhabitant was seen to alight and assist from the 
vehicle a delicate-looking boy of prepossessing 
appearance, who walked slowly, and as though 
far from strong. 

““Who now, I wonder?” exclaimed Mrs. Per- 
cival, who was standing behind her daughter’s 
chair. ‘“They’re a curious lot over the way! 
That Mr. Barnard is a gentleman I would be sor- 
ry to have much to do with.” 

The visitor rolled his eyes over in the direction 
of the gentleman ringing the bell opposite, and, 
while waiting, the gentleman looked across the 
way, and possibly encountered that singular ex- 
pression. He placed a hand paternally upon the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


child’s head; at the same moment the door was 
opened from within, and Noel Barnard, with “ Wal- 
ter Gordon,” entered and was lost to sight. 

‘“¢ A new apprentice to the wholesale !” remark- 
ed Mr. Percival, Senior; “I hope they will make 
a good man of business of him. Figures and 
work, Mr. Miles; nothing like figures and work.” 

“ Percival,” said Mrs. Percival, with majesty, 
“ at our time of life, for goodness’ sake let us have 
done with figures !” 

“True, my dear; but one can not see a youth 
like that, in all probability fresh from the coun- 
try, entering upon a mercantile life in this crowd- 
ed city without experiencing some sort of interest.” 

The visitor raised his hand benevolently, and 

quietly and approvingly remarked, 
“Your sentiments do you much honor, Sir. 
The industries of this empire present a sublime 
example of the indefatigable activity of the great 
thinkers and workers. Middle-class society is 
composed of very worthy men, Mr. Percival.” 

Mr. Percival nodded pleasantly, rubbing his 
hands, and taking it as in part compliment to 
himself. Mrs. Percival, however, walked away 
to her housekeeping, with the shrewd rejoinder, 

“Worthy enough till you find them out, I dare 
say.” 

The visitor shrugged his shoulders, as much as 
to say it was an indisputable fact that there was 
a considerable number of people about who would 
not obtain the highest of references. 
erward he took his leave, and the lady of the 
house breathed again. 

Gabrielle sat late in her chamber that night, 
thinking. Sat by the open window, looking out 
over the gray panorama, with its curves and 
lines of light; with windows of a small street at 
their back where court-yards met their gardens, 
growing black and still, one by one. Thinking of 
her future, with that placid gentleness which was 
so eminently her characteristic, but thinking more 
seriously than she had ever done before. She 
had been so happily restful in regard to George, 
the thought never occurred to her until this even- 
ing: what if he, after all, found himself mistaken 
in his supposed abiding love for her? What if 
it should prove the sequence of years passed in 
each other’s gentle company? What if, upon 
some sudden crisis in his life, he should centre 
his affections upon some other object? Where 
would she be then, and what prospect, save a 
memory all sad and bitter pain, would be left 
to her? Time was flitting, her youth had van- 
ished like a dream, almost uncounted in the 
pleasant waiting; ever with him, she had trou- 
bled little, and had never visited at the houses of 
others, or been even for once in the company of 
another ; it was because her love induced that 
satisfied repose which is the very perfection of 
the sentiment. It was only the shadow of re- 
straint, the merest hint of the reserved, in her 
cousin’s manner, had led to this; but it was a 
clouding which, though no larger than a man’s 
hand, yet assumed formidable proportions from 
its very rarity. Then she comforted herself, 

““T am sure George would tell me if there was 
any thing.” 

Next day, sitting at her window, long after 
both George and their opposite neighbor had 
gone off to the City, the fair girl, not yet recov- 
ered from her thinking fit, saw ‘‘ Walter Gordon,” 
whom they had noticed entering the house of Mr. 


Soon aft-, 


59 


Noel Barnard the previous evening, also sitting 
by the window, seeming very dejected, and look- 
ing wistfully across at the gentle and lovable 
face, as though she would like to fly and nestle 
beside her while she confided all the heart was 
full of. And Gabrielle’s heart moved her to 
some expression of interest. 

““T believe he is all alone; if it did not look 
bold, I would go over to him, for I am sure the 
boy is wretched ; I should like to beckon him.” 

She did put up her hand, but the forwardness 
of the action, from the neighbors’ point of view, 
checked her implied sympathy. 

“Tf it had been any other house! But Iam half 
afraid of offending that man ; and, after all, I have 
no right to interfere. Dear mother would tell me 
to mind my own business.” 

Still that lonely and uncared-for look upon the 
face smote her, for Gabrielle was quick to dis- 
cern grief, and sensitively took the sorrows of 
others unto herself. She looked across again, 
and saw that the child was weeping, and she 
could restrain herself no longer, so she signaled, 
inviting the child with all the energy of her affec- 
tionate heart. In the fact of the childhood lies the 
excuse. At first “ Walter” did not seem to under- 
stand the movement, and then, when it was repeat- 
ed, was hesitative and timorous, yet rose as about 
to comply with the invitation. Nodding with a re- 
assuring smile, Gabrielle rose also as though wait- 
ing, and the child hurried across the street, and 
was tenderly received by this new friend. Thus 
simply are some of the most complex schemes 
thrown out of order. 


a 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
“WALTER GORDON” FINDS A STANCH FRIEND. 


GABRIELLE took the child’s slender hands with- 
in her own, and saying some kind and welcoming 
word, led her to a seat removed from observa- 
tion. 

“You have been suffering; you are not well. 
I could not help asking you to come; I saw you 
were unhappy.” 

“Heaven bless you, dear lady, for your kind 
notice; I was indeed feeling unutterably miser- 
able.” 

‘‘Because you have been brought from home 
to learn the business ?” 

The child shuddered, and covered the pretty 
face with her hands, 

“Tf that can be called a business which is ig- 
noble subjection to the base purposes of intrigue, 
then I am too truly learning the business.” 

“But Mr. Barnard—I thought him a merchant 
in the City—” 

“He is every thing, and every where. He is, I 
believe, the Evil One in person—such is the opin- 
ion of the wise readers of the stars of whom he 
is chief; they fear him, hate him, yet hold his 
equal has not been seen in modern times. He 
is certainly clever—the tangled skein of his con- 
triving would require more than one, two, or 
three to unwind. He has me entirely in his 
hands. Iam homeless, fatherless. I seek both. 
It is to aid this search that I am in his posses- 
sion; he has promised me his assistance.” 

“ And you can take that man’s word ?” 

“Yes, I do not think he would break his 


60 


word with friend or foe; his is a singular nature, 
so many qualities are at variance one with an- 
other. I believe he will assist me, but first make 
liberal use of my services in his own interest ; 
and these I should not begrudge were it for hon- 
orable work, but what he requires of me is repel- 
ling to my every sense of right, truth, and justice.” 

The words, older than the apparent youth of 
the speaker seemed to warrant, led Gabrielle to 
look more intently at the slightly formed creat- 
ure, and then the quick eyes of her sex detected 
the disguise. 

“You yourself are scarcely what you seem, I 
think.” 

“T will explain in a few words. I have escaped 
from hard task-masters of a travelling circus. 
You can imagine why I have assumed this boy’s 
dress, which has thus far proved so much in my 
favor; I am apprenticed to them, and if I am 
traced, shall be severely punished.” 

“ But it is terrible being subject to this strange 
man, whose intentions, you infer, are evil in the 
extreme.” 

“Nay, I would not vouch thus far. I simply 
say he seems to have the resources of twenty de- 
tective offices at his fingers’ ends, and to make 
use of almost every one he comes in contact with, 
independent of his especial clerks or servants.” 

“YT am afraid my power to help you is very 
slight, but any thing that I can do, I will.” 

“‘Can you help me to escape from that man ?” 

“To do that, you would require somewhere to 
go to.” Gabrielle reflected, and not least of the 
points of her forethought had reference to Mr. 
Barnard himself; it was unadvisable to make an 
enemy of a man who, in pursuit of his object or 
purpose, was evidently accustomed to put aside 
all conventional principles, and utterly to disre- 
gard all the ordinary dictates of humanity. But 
then again came in her desire to aid this forlorn 
boy-girl whose pitiful life she might be the means 
of brightening, and Gabrielle was ever ready to 
minister to the suffering and the oppressed. 

“J think, perhaps, if I wrote to my uncle and 
aunt in Hertfordshire, they would be glad to have 
you there; of course about a farm-house there 
are many light employments you could undertake 
very well, and I have no doubt you would be hap- 
py and comfortable. I will write this very day.” 

““Walter’s” gratitude knew no bounds; seizing 
her new friend’s hand, she kissed it with that 
touching respect and homage which is the very 
ideal of devotion; she then, for prudence’ sake, 
returned to her position at the opposite window, 
and not long afterward Gabrielle saw Mr. Noel 
Barnard’s housekeeper enter from her morning’s 
marketing. The domestic manager of his house 
might have been carved, after his own design, 
from adamant. It may safely be asserted there 
was but one woman of her kind upon the globe, 
and that one woman Noel Barnard had, by in- 
stinct, unearthed. Very soon after the woman’s 
entrance the child disappeared, and Gabrielle did 
not see her again all that day; she, however, 
wrote the promised letter, pleading the cause of 
her protégée with simple yet impressive eloquence, 
and she sent this to the post at once, fearful of 
her little one’s removal. 

When George came home she told him what 
she had done, only reserving, as she had reserved 
in her letter, the fact of the child’s sex, being en- 
treated to do so by the girl herself; believing, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


moreover, with her, that this would but excite a 
prejudice against her in the minds of those she 
was seeking to interest. To her suprise, George 
seemed any thing but favorably impressed; he 
said he would rather she had waited his return, 
and that he thought in quiet country places the 
advent of a stranger, under any but openly de- 
clared circumstances, was sure to be noticed; he 
hoped his father would recognize this, and write 
declining. 

“Why, George, this is unlike you, generally so 
willing to help the troubled !” 

“So I am in this instance; I but object to the 
boy’s going to my father’s, because—I don’t see 
what use he will be—and—and—I should not 
like them to get into any trouble at their time of 
life. I am thinking of the proprietor of the cir- 
cus.” 

“Did you notice the child last night ?” 

“Yes, a pretty boy. Why?” 

“‘T fancied his appearance might plead for him.” 

That evening and the next George sat close at 
his writing. One day Gabrielle caught a glimpse 
of her little friend, and she was glad, for it told 
her she was still there. 

In due course came Uncle Percival’s letter. 
Yes, he would receive the lad into his house, and 
“your aunt will see what she can make of him.” 

The question now was how to communicate 
this piece of good news. Eagerly did the fair 
helper watch for the housekeeper’s going out, 
but this only happened once a week, when the 
sphinx transacted her seven days’ business with 
precise and expeditious regularity. However, to 
be in readiness, Gabrielle made a little parcel of 
the letter and ten shillings in silver; but how to 
transfer this to the object of her kind aid was 
the difficulty. The next time she saw her she 
held it up to prepare her for its reception; the 
child signed to the other end of the room, as it 
seemed ; but after she had gone from the window, 
upon thinking it over, Gabrielle came to the con- 
clusion it was the back garden she wished to di- 
rect her attention to; then Gabrielle set her wits 
to work. 

Behind the opposite terrace she knew very well 
there was a line of small houses with back yards, 
corresponding with those at the rear of their own 
house. She might, upon some pretext, gain ac- 
cess to the yard at the back of No. 180; she must 
count the houses to make certain of the one; 
when in the yard, she could throw the parcel over 
into Mr. Barnard’s garden, where she must de- 
pend upon good fortune for its being discovered 
by the right person. Had Gabrielle possessed 
more cunning and subtlety, she would have de- 
vised a much better method than this; but sim- 
ple and ingenuous as she was, it struck her on 
the spur of the moment as the best plan to fol- 
low, and she at once put on her bonnet and man- 
tle for the performance of her design. 

It was a very mean and narrow street, where 
laundresses seemed to have drifted in a colony. 
She counted off the houses with the accuracy of 
a tax collector, and found the house she was look- 
ing for belonged to a laundress also. It was. 
necessary to devise some excuse for her calling, 
and Gabrielle could think of nothing better than 
proposing to send the woman some of their rough 
washing, dusters and tea-cloths and articles of 
that description. She knocked, and the brawny 
mistress of the house came to the door. The lady 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


said she had called about some washing, and was 
eivilly invited to step inside; then the lady said 
she would like to send a few things once a fort- 
night—upon Mondays, and—could she see the 
yard? The woman hesitated. “We haven’t 
much drying ground, ma’am; but of course you 
know what London is, very different to the coun- 
try where I was brought up; but though we’re 
small, we’re clean and hairy.” 

“Jt will be more satisfactory to see it, if you 
don’t mind.” 

“Not at all, ma’am; step through, please, and 
mind your ’ead. You'll excuse the cinder bin; 
my good man was about emptying it this morn- 
ing, only I’ad to send some linen ’ome to a large 
school I washes for.” 

It was the most diminutive chicken-walk that 
ever was seen, beautifully unadorned, and edged, 
after the advanced juvenile school, with oyster- 
shells. The mound to which the woman had 
drawn extenuating attention was of formidable 
dimensions, and was the habitual castle defended 
by half of the laundress’s children, while the oth- 
er half attacked and besieged with energy and 
fury. At the end some scarlet-runners afforded 
pretext for walking up to the same with a kind 
word appreciative of their growth. Having asked 
the woman for a card, which she went in-doors to 
procure, Gabrielle seized the time, and standing 
by the beans, deftly threw the parcel over. 

Almost on the instant there appeared from the 
other side, towering above the wall, a head, which 
frightened Gabrielle (so unexpected was its ar- 
rival) as much as do the ogre heads of panto- 
mime those innocent mortals who are supposed 
to venture too near their retreats. 

It was the head of the owner of the garden, 
surmounted by an elaborately worked smoking- 
cap, cigar in mouth, dressing-gown upon his 
shoulders, and in his white hand a beautifully 
bound volume. 

“Permit me!” and with the utmost politeness 
he handed the lady the small parcel. Piqued 
beyond description, Gabrielle took this from him, 
and at the same moment saw the child at an up- 
per window. Mr. Barnard bowed to the lady, and 
the lady bowed to Mr. Barnard, while the laun- 
- dress, standing hands on hips, appeared to be of 
opinion there was still more going on in the 
world than her philosophy dreamed of. Then 
the owner of the garden glided gently down to 
his rustic seat, lifted his long legs American fash- 
ion, gracefully adjusted his gown beside him, al- 
lowed a hand to caress the ferns by the garden 
chair, leaned his head back, and then went com- 
fortably off to sleep. 

Miss Percival, meantime, regained her presence 
of mind, and, courteously thanking the woman, 
made for home, more than ever alert in the inter- 
ests of ‘“ Walter Gordon.” 


— 


CHAPTER XIX. 
THE GRAY DAWN OF LOVE. 


“Mrs. Branpon !” 

“My love !” 

“The yacht is still in our waters; I saw it to- 
day.” 
“Indeed ?” The pale woman lifted her large 


61 


rose from her bosom, she laid it upon the table 
with tantalizingly poetic effect. Lena threw her- 
self upon a chair, and, rapping its back with the 
vehemence of an auctioneer, she exclaimed, 

“You do put me out so with those lackadaisi- 
cal ways ; I would ever so much prefer you would 
start up and whistle, or scream, or—any thing, 
rather than that cold, calm, unmoved manner. I 
do hate you when you're like that ; and as you’re 
generally so, there isn’t much love lost.” 

“Miss St. Aubyn is not growing -more lady- 
like, I am sorry to say.” 

“Miss St. Aubyn is not growing at all; Miss 
St. Aubyn has received orders to stop growing. 
Papa said to me to-day, looking almost as dismal 
as yourself, ‘How much I would give could I but 
keep my little girl as she is at present? ” 

“And what did you say? ‘I will always be 
your own dear little girl, papa?’ ” 

“No, I didn’t. I said, ‘Iam not your little girl 
now, papa. I’m grown a great big girl; and I 
don’t mean to have out my doll any more, or tease 
pussy, or eat the preserves. [’m going to be se- 
date and ugly, like Mrs. Brandon.’ That’s what I 
said, dear; and I suppose I was rude, as usual ;” 
and without waiting for the reply—she was in 
one of her wicked moods—Lena turned her back 
upon the housekeeper. . 

Hortense Brandon shrugged her shoulders, but 
showed no resentment beyond a sarcastic smile, 
and quietly trifling with the locket suspended at 
her throat; she could put up with a great deal of 
Miss Lena’s plain speech without betraying an- 
noyance. 

“ And what did papa say ?” 

“Oh, he became so pale I thought the bad 
headache he suffered from the day after that 
dreadful man was here whom Mr. Barnard sent 
off, had returned; and I went and put my arms 
round his neck, my naughtiness quite gone, and 
tried to coax him back to color.” 

“‘Good girl!” 

“He flushed, and sitting down, took me upon 
his knee, looking so mournfully into my face; 
and he said, 

‘““¢ T have somewhere heard or read, my Lena, 
that when a girl gives up her doll, it is to love 
something else.’ 

“So then, with my arm round his neck, I an- 
swered, as lovingly as ever I could, 

‘“‘¢ What more, my dear papa, than to give ex- 
tra love to you?’” 

“That was very pretty and very good of you. 
Papa liked that, of course ?” 

“T think so. He kissed me,” said Lena, facing 
the lady again. ‘Soon afterward he seemed to 
be thoughtful, and all at once said, 

‘““¢T had a dream—a curiously painful dream— 
last night, Lena. I dreamed that you were lost to 
me.’ ” 

Mrs. Brandon pushed her footstool a little away 
from her as by a movement of impatience, dropping 
stitches, pricking herself, and feeling her breath 
come short and sharp. 

“<«What a strange dream, papa! I said. ‘It 
comes of that man forcing himself in upon you.’ 

“¢Yes; but that shall never happen, my dar- 
ling, shall it? even if any one tried to take you 
from me? Ah, Lena, is there a more terrible 
misfortune in this world than the loss of a child 
—I will not say by death, but when stolen from 


black eyes and sighed; then, removing a white | one ?” 


62 


“T did not know what to say, for I had never 
thought about it; I kissed papa again, assured 
him he should never, never, never lose his Lena, 
slipped down, just ran to take one peep at the 
yacht, and—came in to you, you dear disagree- 
able old thing.” 

There was a pause of some minutes. It was 
very warm; Lena lazily cooled herself with a fan 
that fluttered with Indian feathers and gleamed 
with Indian gems. Upon a side table was a dish 
of iced pine-apple, and the young lady proceeded 
to devote herself to this with a languid enjoy- 
ment. 

“ Lena !” 

“Mrs. Brandon!” The red lips moist with 
juice of the cool fruit, the little Saude quite full, 
while she*replied. 

‘“‘T suppose you have no sort of sétollection of 
your dear mamma? Of course you are aware I 
did not know poor Mrs. St. Aubyn.” 

“Yes; Ive a very strong recollection of mam- 
ma. I remember her tall figure, her grace, her 
calmness—not a dead-and-alive sort of calmness 
like yours, but the elegance and impassive tran- 
quillity of some empress. I remember her haugh- 
ty type of beauty, her cold, cruel nature. I can 
scarcely remember, but I do not think I loved 
her; I stood*in too great awe of her.” 

Mrs. Brandon had listened with eagerness pain- 
ful in its intensity, but she was compelled to pre- 
serve an appearance of indifference, knowing 
well how erratic her young informer was. She 
might at any moment dart off at a tangent, and 
never be led back to the subject. Therefore she 
said, with well-assumed carelessness, 

“T am surprised to hear you say cruel, my 
love.” 

“But I remember her being cruel to me, put- 
ting me from her with bitter words, and as 
though hating, from her heart of hearts, to have 
me near her. Don’t you call that cruelty? And 
I also remember a dreadful scene with papa, and 
yet I sometimes think not with papa, but there is 
a dim uncertainty about this I never can get 
right; I do believe my memory becomes more 
and more indistinct the older I grow.” 

“Naturally; you are further removed from the 
pictures of your youth.” 

“T suppose that is it. And speaking of pic- 
tures, the set-out was all about a picture, the 
miniature of a fair-haired, lovely girl mamma 
one day caught papa looking at over his desk, 
and she was so angry, and there were such cut- 
ting words interchanged, I have never forgotten 
the affair.” 

“Of course you do not recollect the name of 
the young lady whom the picture represented ?” 
The pale woman hunted all over her work-basket 
for a button. 

“T recollect, because mamma taunted papa, 
and went on at him until he hurled the name at 
her, as it were.” 

“And it was—” 

Mrs. Brandon’s eagerness got the better of her 
policy, and defeated itself. 

‘“‘ And it was—no business of Mrs. Brandon’s!” 
exclaimed the provoking girl, with a merry laugh. 
“But Pll just tell you the initials, because that 
won’t matter, you know; they were—Z#. 7.” 

Lena idled into the garden; Mrs. Brandon 
wrote /. 7. upon her tablet. 

“Ella Travers !” sang Lena, seating herself in 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


her favorite cavity under shade of shrubs and 
trees, and dangling one hand over the cliff’s 
edge on trail for wild flowers. 


22 REESE 


CHAPTER XX. 
THE MAN THEY THOUGHT MAD. 


Romantic is the only word conveying the ex- 
perience in the curious, the eccentric, and the 
pathetic which certain parishes afford the stu- 
dent of human life. The minister is a privileged 
person. Possessed of tact and courteous gentle- 
ness, he may penetrate where no other dares to 
follow, regions practically sealed to all but him- 
self and the doctor. His questions are not com- 
monly regarded as intrusive, and as a rule his 
appearance is not greeted with the frowns and 
bearishness of manner some people represent. 

In a tolerably varied visiting experience over 
a thickly populated area comprising all classes, 
from the lesser trades-people down to the utter- 
ly destitute, Westley Garland had met with every 
possible kind of reception, and every describable 
and indescribable type of character, the records 
of which were as significant as the deepest of po- 
etic dramas. 

Such study imparts a curious review of life— 
almost a grotesque pageant of human nature. 
Sermons are not as eloquent and not so convin- 
cing as are such unvarnished records. Homilies 
unspoken and unwritten lie broadcast in the par- 
ish, and this is the largest library of divinity in 
the world. The parish may be a world in itself. 
The chronicle of one house is more enthralling 
sometimes than the most absorbing of fictions. 
The history of a terrace is a panorama of all hu- 
man joys and woes. The mature experience of a 
street may teach a man more than he will learn 
in all the remainder of the universe. <A year’s 
labor in devious City ways is fraught with quiet 
yet strong expression, and intimate acquaintance 
with idiosynerasy and physiology, with eccentric- 
ity and the singular. 

With the exception of Lady Guilmere—an old 
friend, as he explained to his curate, the Rev. 
Spencer Webb —Mr. Garland did not visit the 
houses of the wealthy. No, his pastoral out-of- 
doors service was conferred solely upon those 
who had nothing but bare thanks to offer in re- 
turn, and very often he departed without any 
thanks at all. 

One narrow street was especially interesting 


to him, for sake of one house and the tenant of 


one room in that house. Look in upon this: 
An elderly man seated at a table eating his 
lunch, the table-cloth is an opened newspaper— 
an ancient Morning Post ; the luncheon consists 
of a sandwich, salt, bread, and water: a Cham- 
pagne glass, and a ginger-beer bottle filled with 
some liquid which he shakes lustily to impart to 
it an appearance of effervescence. The table is 
deal, the floor bare, the whole place desolate and 
comfortless; yet to see the man you would sup- 
pose him seated in a prince’s chamber before a 
board purveyed with plenty. He is an elderly, 
aristocratic man, in a coat that might have been 
black-leaded, so worn to a shiny iron-gray is that 
garment; but the hand below the frayed sleeve 
is white as hand can be; over it a cuff he had 
himself washed out that morning, and dried in 


A MODERN 


the sun before dressing for lunch. He is scru- 
pulously exact in his toilet, scrupulously exact in 
his luncheon and dining hours, severally fixed at 
two and seven o’clock, the dinner consisting as a 
rule of a sausage and a potato. Before dinner 
he orders James to ring the bell and summon his 
guests: he is James, his guests are imaginary; 
the bell—an old dustman’s bell he had bought 
for a few half-pence—hangs to a nail by a piece 
of string, and the clatter it makes when James 
rings for dinner causes the old landlady to mut- 
ter a volley of threats against the poor crack- 
brained lodger; for of course he is mad to the 
vulgar. One vulgar person never calls another: 
vulgar person mad; it is always somebody better 
off, somebody disposed to be eccentric; to be 
called mad is a satisfaction generally, it is a tes- 
timony to the uncommon, and in most cases to 
the superior. This person, like many another, 
regards it as a distinction, and will not in any 
case allow it to interfere with the imperturbable 
good temper which induces him to make the best 
of every thing. In his cuffs gleam a pair of 
studs, the fair value of which may be one penny, 
yet he lightly pushes them into position, with the 
pleasant remark—‘ Must change these for dia- 
monds to-morrow; the worst of gold is it gets in 
one’s way so!” Another time he complains of 
the jingling noise they make against the plate 
(he is eating off a piece of paper with a pocket- 
knife). Every now and then he will address the 
servant supposed to be standing behind his chair, 
possibly to censure the wine-merchant regarding 
the vintage of the Champagne, holding up the gin- 
ger-beer bottle with evident displeasure, a truly 
humorous twinkle in his eye nevertheless. And 
while he and his guests are helped to the most 
luxurious fare procurable upon the continent of 
Europe, there is no disgust on account of the fru- 
gality and destitution around him, which indeed 
he succeeds in losing sight of altogether beneath 
the illusion in which he himself enshrouds it. 
This is Mr. Dickson Cheffinger; a gentleman 
in reduced circumstances, the presumptive heir 
to a baronetcy, and at this time without a friend 
in the world, save and except the clergyman from 
_ the imposing-looking church near by, who, with 
the affable tact peculiar to him, humors the craze 
of the poor gentleman, and never calls without 
leaving some delicate souvenir of his visit. And 
Mr. Dickson Cheffinger, who would have received 
a visit from her Majesty as an honor, but quite 
as a matter of course, gives truly noble reception 
to this distinguished guest. James is dispatched 
hither and thither, and frisks about regardless of 
dignity, in the endeavor to please his master and 
do justice to the importance of the visitor. All 
the aristocratic and noble ones staying in the 
house at the time are privately acquainted by 
James, directed by his master, of this addition to 
their number. The elaborately carved oak guest- 
chair, in which King Charles was wont to sit (it 
had been a rush-bottomed kitchen chair, but the 
rushes were now conspicuous by their absence), 
is placed before the gentleman with much cere- 
mony and apology for the tarnished state of its 
trappings. “It is an heir-loom,” says Mr. Dick- 
son Cheffinger, “and the nobility of England have 
sat therein for centuries.” Altogether, the Rev. 
Westley Garland’s pastoral visit to Dickson Chef- 
finger, Esq., is about as painful as it is hamorous, 
and as speculative as can be desired. The place' 


MINISTER, 63 


is so dirty outside and in, and the gentleman’s 
landlady so formidable, that nobody else ventures 
to enter; and although concealing the fact, Mr. 
Cheffinger looks longingly for these visits, which 
are as glimpses of sunshine in his clouded life. 

No one cared to think upon the subject, but 
had they done so, curiosity might have been 
aroused as to Mr. Cheffinger’s mode of gaining a 
living ; he was never seen to do any work, and 
never known to have any money. The house was 
occupied by very poor people, and Mr. Dickson 
Cheffinger was undoubtedly the poorest of them 
all; yet, singularly enough, he was invariably hap- 
py, busying himself from morning till night with 
the noble and illustrious guests supposed to be 
thronging his reception-rooms, 

It was a harmless deception, and perhaps did 
good, for it drove away dull care, and banished 
the ever-present shadow of gaunt poverty. Some- 
times Mr. Cheffinger went out, and upon these 
occasions he passed down the stairs, along the 
passage, and out at the door, without observing 
the disreputable condition of the floor and walls, 
or noticing the rude discourse, right and left, often 
at his expense. Upon one occasion, when a churl 
jostled roughly against him, he corrected in so 
quietly polite a manner the treatment was never 
repeated. True the coarse Sussex workman was 
not a little astonished at being addressed in this 
fashion, ‘“‘Your lordship would seem to forget 
the courtesy due to me extends as far as the en- 
trance hall,” and probably regarded the poor mad 
gentleman as entitled to be treated with civility 
if not with deference, for it was patent to all that 
he had seen better days, and that if he was mad 
it was misfortune had turned his brain, which 
Westley Garland was one to doubt. He had small 
faith in that ignis fatuus of a baronetey which 
haunted the poor gentleman, or in the half-kind 
complainings against those who were keeping him 
out of his title, wealth, and honors; but he had 
implicit faith in the antecedents of culture and 
inbred donhomie which supported him under the 
various phases of his poverty. And Dickson Chef- 
finger was very grateful for this confidence, and 
would have served his friend in any way. 

“Tt is no joke, Mr. Garland,” he said one day, 
“for aman and a nobleman entitled to twenty 
thousand a year to be placed in so questionable 
a position. The Duke of Cambridge was here 
to dinner last evening, and I candidly asked the 
opinion of his Royal Highness upon my claims, 
and if he could not introduce the subject to her 
Majesty. He could not do that, he said; but had 
no doubt, giving me the benefit of his private ad- 
vice, that upon the death of the present repre- 
sentative—quite an old man, my dear Mr. Gar- 
land—I should certainly acquire possession.” 

“ And so you will, my dear Sir, all in good time. 
These things are not to be hurried; the chief 
point is to be happy and contented in the state 
we immediately occupy.” 

Whereupon Mr. Cheffinger had seized his hand, 
exclaiming, ‘“‘And I am, Sir, supported by Provi- 
dence. And my good friends—you wonder where 
they have run away to—dressing for lunch; as I 
live, it is time! James, ring the bell. A cold 
collation, Mr. Garland, but you will stop, Sir; our 
friends will be so charmed to meet you ?” 

Mr. Garland had known trouble himself, and, 
although it had taken a different effect upon him, 
he could sympathize with the innocent eccentric- 


64 


ity of this fellow-creature. He invariably pre- 
served his gravity, was always tenderly consider- 
ate, and furnished the board with all above those 
common necessaries it ever contained. As often 
happens, Mr. Cheffinger’s weakness was better, far 
better, known distant miles away, where, perhaps, 
it had more interest; the occupiers of the ob- 
scure little street and common lodging-house were 
content to leave it at peace, so many odd twistings 
of character come under the notice of the very 
poor. 

One evening Mr. Garland walked in quietly and 
without ceremony, as was his custom: the poor 
gentleman was intently studying the only book 
he possessed, a torn and faded Burke’s Peerage. 

“ Good-evening, Sir Dickson,” said the Minister, 
with a frank and genial smile; ‘“‘ how are you ?” 

“ Very well, thanking you much. Indeed, I may 
say, never better. Cavendish was here this morn- 
ing. ‘Bless my soul,’ said he, ‘ how well you’re 
looking, Cheffinger; mean to outlive it, I can 
see!’ ‘Indeed Ido, my dear Duke,’ I replied, and 
he quaffed my health in Champagne there and 
then” (pointing to the ginger-beer bottle on the 
grimy mantel). “ Going down the stairs he knock- 
ed against the Duke of Richmond. ‘ Why, here’s 
this fellow,’ I heard him say, ‘ we all thought go- 
ing quietly off, as lively as a fighting-cock Not 
elegant, Mr. Garland, but I distinctly heard it on 
the stairs.” 

“These dukes know you are of an enduring 
sort, Mr. Cheffinger.” 

The poor gentleman laid his hand with grave 
earnestness upon the other’s arm, and said, 

“Tf you do not believe me to be Sir Dickson, 
why call me so? If you do believe it, why not 
keep to the title? None are here to gibe at the 
honor you concede by right.” 

“Call not this man mad!” said Westley Garland 
to himself ; adding aloud, ‘‘ I come to make a pro- 
posal, which it may give you pleasure to accept, 
and do me service in return.” 

The impoverished man was alert in an instant. 

“Tf I could but serve you, do tell me how. Is 
it for the Church? My friends, I am convinced, 
will interest themselves. I expect the Bishop of 
Chichester here very shortly; do let me put the 
matter before him.” 

“Many thanks; no. Nothing in that way. I 
will explain. You told me once you knew Devon. 
I think you said yours was a Devonshire family ?” 

“Tt is true; dear old Devon! Somebody from 
Torquay was here last evening, but I forget who; 
I know I recognized the features.” 

“JT was going to ask if you remember an estate 
that was known, before its sale to the present pro- 
prietors, and may be now, for all I know, as Eagle 
Hall ?” 

“By name and sight well. 
the dickens lived at the Hall? 
who?” 

“Mr, Lionel Travers —he was my college 
friend; he met with serious reverses and great 
misfortune. I was desirous of befriending his 
family, but was prevented ; and upon instituting 
inquiries I ascertained they had mysteriously dis- 
appeared from the neighborhood. I fear they 
are wandering, and in trouble. Do—you—think 
—with—a—well-furnished—purse—you — could 
—discover—their—whereabouts —and—without 
informing them from whence comes the relief— 
so—help—them—as—to—place—mother and— 


Let me see—who 
Lord—Lord— 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


and child—beyond the reach of—of want? Can 
you do this, Sir Dickson? If you will, I will . 
spare no exertion to see you placed in possession 
of your own!” 

Thin and white, hungry and exhausted, yet 
with a spirit debonair and fresh as untarnished 
silver, the poor gentleman started to his feet, 
thrilled by chivalry and gratitude, and fired with 
enthusiasm. 

“ Without any reward I would seek them out for 
you, Sir; and I will find them, I will find them! 
James shall pack my portmanteau instantly. I 
will leave a note informing the earl Iam unable to 
keep an engagement; but he may come before I 
leave. How happy I feel that you are placing it 
in my power to do you some little service! I’ve 
a lot of people staying in the house; surely they 
won’t delay me in any way; they did speak of the 
South Devon Hunt only last evening. I have it 
—I’ll not tell them I’m going; the earl, for in- 
stance, is an awful chatter-box—I have a decided 
impression he is. Tl not say a word to him; 
and by the spotless ermine, I hear his footstep 
on the stair. I thought he’d come!” 

True enough, a heavy and aristocratic step was 
heard slowly ascending ; and, thinking it might 
be the landlord, Mr. Garland thrust a well-filled 
purse upon his ambassador (who concealed it in 
the breast-pocket of his coat, a dress-coat, by-the- 
way), and prepared to depart. After taking a 
cordial leave, he was throwing open the door, 
when the earl stepped into the room, in the form 
and person of that startling genius Mr. Noel Bar- 
nard, The Minister flushed to the temples, stag- 
gered for the instant, then coldly continued his 
way; the secretary watching to the last receding 
glimpse of his form, with that strange expression 
ever characterizing his heed of Westley Garland. 
One would have thought these two held some 
terrible secret in common. 

Apparently the new visitor did not prepossess 
Mr. Cheffinger, who looked him hard in the face, 
and asked, 

“Are you a doctor?” Somebody had once 
promised to send a doctor of lunacy to Mr. Chef- 
finger, by way of threat, and he had never for- 
gotten it. One countenance more objectionable 
than another, one form more burly, and it was 
immediately identified with that doctor. 

“No!” replied the visitor, “I’m not, and I 
shouldn’t like to be! Im a solicitor, Sir Dick- 
son, and I’ve the pleasure of speaking toe my cli- 
ent, whom I hope soon to be able to introduce to 
the world in propria persona. Shake hands, Sir 
Dickson !” 

Sir Dickson shook hands, looking very bewil- 
dered, and asking, 

“Ts there, then, any fresh news—any compro- 
mise proposed—any—any death ?” 

“Calm yourself, Sir Dickson; nothing is yet 
settled, we await a little assistance of your own. 
But tell me—the gentleman who has just gone 
out—I was not aware you were already suited 
with a legal adviser ?” 

“Bless me, no; the Lord Chancellor was say- 
ing he would recommend one to me—but I am 
not suited: I thought it premature, I thought it 
premature; but don’t stand. James, take the 
gentleman’s hat—where on earth’s my man gone 
to? Allow me!”. And with the gallantry of an 
earlier school, the poor man, James not being 
available, himself placed the hat upon a shelf. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Mr. Barnard watched the operation with much 
interest. 

“ You’ve a charming little room here, Sir Dick- 
son !” . 

Sir Dickson did not know what to say, and 
spread the newspaper over the back of King 
Charles’s chair for an antimacassar. 

. “Yet we all like a change,” he continued, 
“and I doubt not, Sir Dickson, a little tour would 
be very agreeable. Like all gentlemen who pos- 
sess taste—you are fond of travel, eh ?” 

“T am, even now, contemplating a somewhat 

long journey, Mr.—Mr.—” 

“Noel Barnard, Sir, of the firm Barnard und 
O’ Connor, Chancery Chambers, Cursitor Street.” 

“ And I believe my man must be packing. So 
sorry I can not offer you a glass of claret !” 

“Thank you, I never take it; but to business. 
Grant me permission to lay a few facts before 
you relative to this long-disputed cause. You are, 
or believe yourself to be, entitled to the baronetcy, 
estates, and moneys of CHEFFINGER, valued at some 
twenty thousand pounds per annum, in round 
numbers; the same being at this present enjoyed 


by your remote cousin, whom you hold to be an. 


illegal representative. Is this not so, Sir Dick- 
son ?” ; 

“ Precisely as I put it to his Highness the other 
evening.” 

The solicitor, to whom Highnesses were very 
small game, smiled graciously, and continued : 

“T have been for some time actively engaged 
in investigating the case for you, and my respect- 
ed partner and myself were in possession of some 
valuable documents effectually substantiating your 
claims, and which, upon completion, we contem- 
plated having the pleasure of laying before you; 
but I regret to say these have mysteriously dis- 
appeared.” 

“ Disappeared!’ Starting to his feet, with 
clinched hands and a blank expression of coun- 
tenance, Mr. Cheffinger slowly realized the effect 
that disappearance indicated ; then he murmured 
something about a clew. 

“Yes, we have a clew. A lad of ungsual in- 
telligence, recently articled to our firm, has de- 
camped from a branch office, taking many valua- 
ble papers with him. His intention, no doubt, is 
to set forth in ostensible search for the heir-at- 
law, but he will sell his priceless freightage to 
the present occupier for a mere song. We de- 
sire to be beforehand, and intercept the nefarious 
transaction. This boy should be tracked, and 
compelled to hand over the papers to yourself or 
to us. Are you content, all expenses being paid, 
to follow in pursuit of this lad, and to telegraph 
our firm the instant you discover him? You un- 
derstand, we might place this matter in the hands 
of the police; but it involves so much explana- 
tion and publicity, all of which would be fatal to 
our cause, and might be prejudicial to your inter- 
ests. We prefer availing ourselves of your serv- 
ices, if you are willing to interest yourself. Of 
course, Sir Dickson,” added the solicitor, careless- 
ly, ‘‘it is immaterial to the firm, as we can very 
readily obtain professional assistance, and it is 
quite unusual for a legal representative to repose 
this confidence in a client; admitting him, as it 
were, my dear Sir Dickson, behind the scenes— 
taking him, in fact, into a quiet partnership.” 
And the solicitor’s face appeared so illumined 
by frank and hearty honesty, poor Sir Dickson, 

E 


65 


scarcely knowing whether he was upon his head or 
his heels, consented at once, and received a second 
purse of gold, without knowing what to do with 
either. The sacred and fine old English rights 
of hospitality triumphed, and he proposed, with 
great self-possession, when his visitor rose to de- 
part, 

‘“‘May I beg you will remain and share some 
slight refreshment? I am alone this evening, 
and shall feel honored by your company.” 

“Thank you, Sir Dickson, I iave so much busi- 
ness in hand, or I would gladly accept your invi- 
tation. I have to be in half a dozen different 
places, at as many different points of the com- 
pass, between this and midnight. And now adieu; 
my best wishes accompany you upon this mission 
of delicacy—a mission I am sure no person could 
execute with more tact and prudence than your- 
self. By-the-way—lI had almost forgotten, and 
the firm looks to me for all responsible work— 
it becomes necessary, in an exceptional matter of 
this kind, for you to sign an agreement conferring 
certain powers upon the legal representatives, 
without which, in fact, they can perform no sat- 
isfactory work. This is simply a form. You 
will sign this, of course, Sir Dickson ?” 

Saying which, the diplomatist unfolded a 
lengthy document, and spread it upon the table. 
The poor suitor scarcely looked at it. He would 
have thought it dishonor to doubt so honest-spok- 
en a gentleman. With a hand that trembled 
slightly with agitation—the poor wasted form 
being any thing but strong—he took up an old 
greasy pen, fumbled about for a half-dry penny 
bottle of ink, and prepared to sign, when Mr. Noel 
Barnard interposed, in a gently business - like 
manner, 

“One moment! 
two.” 

“My friends, Lords—” 

The solicitor interrupted him a little impa- 
tiently, 

“Some one in the house.” 

“They are in the house, in the billiard-room. 
James will summon them to this conference.” 

Mr. Noel Barnard was turning very red in the 
face, when a knock at the door startled them. It 
was followed by the re-entrance of the Rev. West- 
ley Garland, who explained that he had forgotten 
one of his gloves, and, stooping down by the table 
at the foot of the exposed document, picked up 
the said glove with,polite assurance. 

“ Here,” said the man they thought mad, lay- 
ing his thin hand reverently upon the clergyman’s 
arm—“ here is the best witness we can have.” 

And the Minister nodded coolly, yet withal 
pleasantly; but brought a hand down like a 
sledge-hammer when Noel Barnard attempted to. 
remove the paper. 

“My turn now, Mr. Secretary Barnard!” He 
seized the paper, and looked it over with the cyn- 
ical comment, ‘‘ Very pretty ; a nice arrangement 
for Cheffinger!” That gentleman being consid- 
erably astonished at the new part played by his 
friend, Mr. Garland remarked, “ No one should 
execute a document without having it previously 
read over to him and explained.” And the calm, 
sad eyes sought out those of Mephistopheles, who, 
not abashed, stood with one hand folded firm upon 
the table, erect and haughty as some ancient ruler 
of provinces, and looking back the glance with 
the composed defiance of conscious power, 


We must have a witness or 


66 


“There is so much of this,” said Mr. Garland, 
wearily, “if you do not mind, I will take it home 
to study ?”—addressed to Dickson Cheffinger, who 
of course assenting, the Minister leisurely fold- 
ed it for consignment to his pocket. Then Noel 
Barnard angrily insisted upon objecting to the 
breach of courtesy involved, and the Minister 
turned upon him with decision. 

“The document shall remain in my custody 
for the present, Sir, and until Mr. Cheffinger 
thoroughly realizes its purport.” 

“Mr.—he calls me Mr. again,” murmured the 
subject of all this solicitude. 

“And now, Sir,” continued Westley Garland, 
“having settled our business here, we may as well 
go, for I can see Mr. Cheffinger is fatigued.” 

Saying which, and shaking hands with the 
poor gentleman, he stood by the open door wait- 
ing for Mr. Barnard to pass. 

“Good-evening, Sir Dickson,” said that tacti- 
cian, with consummate homage—“ good-evening, 
and rest assured, despite the treatment I have 
personally received, and the affront upon our 
firm, we shall not lose sight of your interests; in 

which, of course, you will give us your esteemed 
assistance.”” And with a meaning look and warm 
clasp of the hand, the gentleman with Australian 
and other testimonials passed out, bowing sweet- 
ly to Mr. Garland, who, following, saw him well 
away from the house and down the street. 

Left alone, poor Dickson Cheffinger seated him- 
self in the chair of King Charles, placed the two 
purses upon the table before him, and stared at 
them with blank bewilderment. Which to serve 
first? Not being selfish, he thought it well to 
serve his friend before himself. But then the 
stranger had addressed him as “Sir Dickson Chef- 
finger,” and the title was very dear to him; and was 
not the gentleman striving in and for his (Chef- 
finger’s) interests; and had he not waited so long, 


so very long, for this day? Then arose a yearning | 


to see once more his native county. He should 
go straight to Devon to serve his friend, and step 
by step trace out those in whom he was so inter- 
ested. Again, how discover the lad for the solic- 
itor, without name or description? Surely these 
would be in the purse? He looked. Yes! A 
folded paper, with a full description in neatly writ- 
ten characters, and the name of Walter Gordon. 

“‘ My friends will wonder at my absence,” said 
he, half sadly, looking round his bare home, and 
dreading the idea of turningyout upon the wide 
waste men call the world. True he had money, 
but then he was so helpless compared with those 
strong and resolute ones he saw abroad; and he 
would feel lonely without the lords and earls and 
dukes, his constant companions and intimate as- 
sociates ; he must leave all these behind, but then 
it was to meet them all on happier ground—per- 
haps at CHEFFINGER, the dream of forty years! A 
fair smile played away the wrinkled care-lines ; 
he stood up a boy again, and more man than for 
a long decade. 

“James,” called Mr. Cheffinger to that non- 
entity his valet, “begin to pack; we start to- 
morrow morning early.” 

Then James, in the person of Mr. Dickson 
Cheffinger, began to pack. It was not a long 
operation. A brass stud—upon which Mr. Chef- 
finger gazed musingly—‘‘It is not as handsome 
as it used to be, but when and where I dropped 
the diamonds is more than Ican unriddle!” <A 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


pair of paper cuffs, a collar, a pair of carpet slip- 
pers, from which the pattern had long since van- 
ished, and the faded Peerage. 

Having packed, he proceeded to settle some 
outstanding accounts, which early that morning 
had been a sore burden to the impoverished 
lodger. He felt very rich and very honored now, 
and he stole down to the shore, to the calm gray 
line of sea, with its border of golden cloud to the 
west; and standing upon half a life and half a 
world, sought to trace the issue of his quest upon 
the fleeting light and deepening shadow, 


ae 


CHAPTER XXI. 
A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


“How peaceful !” murmured Lena, 

“Tt is peace before conflict.” 

Mrs. Brandon had stolen upon her unobserved. 
Lena looked up quickly ; she had been lost in one 
of those reveries in which she at times indulged. 

“T mean that we shall have a storm—do you 
not feel it, do you not see it ?” 

“Neither. Whatever will the yacht do?” 

“‘They will not fear,” said Mrs. Brandon; “the 
Yorkshire fishermen are familiar with these wa- 
ters, and the coast, though dangerous, is well 
known.” 

“Tt seems so sad that storm should follow 
upon calm—” 

‘“‘The principle is invariably balanced by calm 
following upon storm.” 

“Yes, but what wreck and loss may happen 
during the interval of storm.” . 

“True, yet life is thus ordained. Take, for 
instance, a young girl who has lived for years 
contented and happy with those constituting the 
circle of her childhood’s home: the day comes 
when she is dissatisfied with this, and longs for 
what every female heart hungers for—some one 
to love and to love her; then sets in the time 
of disquiet and unrest, which you may call the 
storm-time if you like, and this continues until 
the time of discovering and discovery, when she 
first finds one whom she feels capable of loving, 
and whom she fondly deems capable of loving 
her. Around this same her fancy should wreathe 
beauty, her tenderness weave ideality; of her 
imagery she should create a hero, upon her hero 
bestow nobility, court of that nobility its utmost 
sympathy, yield to that sympathy her fullest, 
freshest reserve of love.” 

While the woman thus insinuatingly ingrafted 
the pain of St. Aubyn, the owner of the yacht had 
laid aside his cigar and book, and, rising from a 
comfortable-looking chair, he pointed his glass 
for a leisurely inspection of the citadel. He saw 
a tiny hand trifling with the blue bloom fringing 
the cliff, and above this the most lovable of little 
faces conceivable. 

“ But then she may have freckles, come to 
get close,” muttered the philosophic yachtsman, 
adapting a clearer focus—“ sure to have freckles, 
always roaming about that garden.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Brandon, I can see him now! 
he just like Byron’s Corsair ?” | 
Mrs. Brandon had been out of sight; she leane 
a little forward, remarking, . 

“He seems a handsome young man, upon my 
word !” tl 


Isn’t | 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“The devil !” muttered the yachtsman, catching 
a glimpse of the black and white duenna. Lena 
did not trouble herself to alter her indolent posi- 
tion; she was fond of watching these craft by 
sunset. It was a picture that not alone relieved 
the monotony of the expanse, but fed those 
dreamy reveries, her sometime pleasure, not yet 
a pain, And the companion, taking advantage 
of her opportunity, resumed her tuition: 

“Unless the person you may be talking with 
experiences the same feeling, you can not describe 
this first budding of love in the bosom of girl- 
hood; but, my dearest Lena, if you were allowed 
to mix more in the world and come in contact 
with people, you would quickly understand for 
yourself, and from that moment a new era in your 
history would commence. In the great world of 
Society your beauty would gain for you a hundred 
suitors; old and young would incline to catch the 
favor of your smile; titles and honors would be 
playthings for your sport at will; hours would be 
but as winged minutes, golden dreams of per- 
fume, music, and song; all your life would be 
changed, your whole soul be thrilled, because you 
would love—yow would love !” 

Dulcet as the serpent of Eden, the voice of the 
speaker and the spell of her words exercised a 
fascinating influence. The girl listened, over- 
come in spite of herself, and, suddenly starting 
up, stood before the woman, erect, panting, flush- 
ed with pride and pleasure, and holding a hand 
forth in the direction of that solitary figure the 
sun was painting glorious as some Homeric cre- 
ation, she cried, 

“JT love—love him !” 

“T thought you did, my dear,” quietly remark- 
ed the black and white, plucking a root of grass 
apart, blade by blade, and looking with mother- 
ly interest for the first time upon the inno- 
cent being she was thus treacherously making 
wise. 

The yacht was much closer to the shore, and 
William Arden could be distinguished more plain- 
ly than before, and he in turn could define the 
cliff and its occupant with tempting accuracy— 
risking the freckles. When he saw the action 
described, his imagination at once interpreted it 
in his own favor, and he accepted the sign as an 
invitation. This lovely and unfortunate girl was 
unhappy, most miserable, unutterably wretched, 
imprisoned upon this huge beetling crag in a cas- 
tellated dwelling by a stern parent of the Rich- 
ardson’s Show order of the parental, and she 
plainly appealed to him for deliverance. All the 
Knights of the Red Cross, with Don Quixote and 
the Champions thrown in, should not surpass his 
efforts of valor in her behalf. 

“T don’t want to get myself into a mess, and I 
ought to be in London by the end of term. Be- 
ing friends of my father’s makes it awkward too; 
but a fellow can’t go and leave a girl languishing 
like that. I’m rather afraid of the old woman; 
if I only had her on my side now!” 

As though in answer to his wish, there was seen 
this: the younger lady was walking slowly away 
toward the house, while the elder waved a pocket 
handkerchief in the direction of himself, and by 
this he knew her to be upon his side. So, turn- 
ing to his faithful purser, he gave orders : 

“ Brown, open me a bottle of Champagne !” 

He thought he deserved a little stimulant be- 
fore he decided upon his plan of action. 


67 


“ Wind’s rising, Mr. William!” and with weath- 
er-wise cautiousness Brown indicated an extra 
rippling of the water, a keener cutting of the bil- 
lows. ‘Better put out to sea,I think. These 
rocks are as jagged and uneven as a shark’s 
teeth !” 

“‘ No, no, Brown; I’ve set my mind upon anchor- 
ing here for the night, and the night it shall be. 
So quaff a goblet, old man, to—well, to success !”’ 

But stanch Yorkshire Brown shook his head, 
and would have none of it. If they both got 
muddled, where might their boat be in the morn- 
ing? So the weather-beaten old fisherman con- 
tented himself with refilling his pipe. 

It was while engaged upon this necessary of- 
fice, an anxious glance bent upon the ominous 
line of rocks, the old man suddenly pocketed his 
pipe, and, pointing to an irregular ledge travers- 
ing the face of the wall like a rift seam, he mut- 
tered, “‘ That’s it agen; I can see it moving, and 
this time I could swear to it. That’s a man; he 
is crawling along the ledge, and the water is ris- 
ing upon him!” 

“Well, Brown, you know what to do,” said 
William Arden, sitting down in his easy-chair, 
and taking off a pair of exquisitely worked slip- 
pers. And while his skipper was preparing for 
running their little vessel nearer in shore, with 
many a shake of the head at the untoward and un- 
timely nature of the act, William Arden removed 
his jacket, ready, if need be, to breast the surf for 
the saving of that fellow-being’s life, but leisure- 
ly sitting down again to his cigar until such time 
as his services might be required, and with all 
his thought intent upon the lovely child of the 
cliff. Taking up his violin, his invariable com- 
pagnon de voyage, he indulged in one of those 
sweet and plaintive serenades of Gascony which, 
but for its faultless rendering, would, under the 
circumstances, have appeared grotesque. The 
ladies heard the melody, and returned to the 
edge of the rock, and there the elder, bending 
over with a nerve characteristic of the woman, 
discovered that solitary figure clinging to the 
ledge, and understood at a glance their scheme of 
rescue. Then with a smile of satisfaction she 
gave her arm to the girl. 

“Come, my dear, let us go in; it is getting damp, 
and you know how particular your papa is!” 


——— 


ad 
CHAPTER XXII. 
“TAUREL IS GREEN FOR A SEASON.” 


In turning her back upon the roseate picture, 
Lena seemed to have lost all the spirit and vi- 
vacity that up to that time had distinguished her 
treatment of the companion. She walked in the 
direction of the house, past shadowy shrubs and 
clumped masses of light and shade, her face pale 
and thoughtful. She seemed to have suddenly 
crossed the border-line dividing the delicate pe- 
riods of girlhood and maidenhood. 

They went into the same room, and by Lena’s 
whispered wish the lady did not ring for lights. 
They sat upon low couches by the window, Lena 
watching the one star in sight, and, as it became 
brighter, the shadows deepening below. 

“T thought we would talk a little while, dear !” 
Lena was like some fluttering and tremulous bird 
now, and her gentleness had something implor- 


68 


ing and supplicating about it. The woman no- 
ticed this, but she was not touched; her face 
bore an expression of grim content. 

When upon the cliff, in the sunset, the girl’s 
heart had throbbed as with fire, and her blood 
burned fiercely ; her eyelids had seemed over- 
weighted with flowers of the crimson hour, and 
the sudden thrill of that new-found excitement 
mounted to her temples, crept about the white 
throat, and nestled there like an adder of red- 
hot gold. But now she felt cold and frightened, 
wishing yet unable to root out these new, strange 
thoughts ; yearning for some confidence and coun- 
sel. And only this sardonic woman, her worst 
foe, to talk to. Truly might the wind moan in 
the trees, and the blue arch above look sombre, 
for it is the most heinous spectacle earth ever 
witnesses, where a designing and crafty woman 
undertakes the spoiling of an ingenuous, inno- 
cent girl. 

“Yes, we will talk a little while, my child.” 
Mrs. Brandon placed her arm around the slim 
form beside -her. She understood very well it 
was herself to talk ; yes, she would talk. 

“Lena, you are by this time quite old enough 
to know what the world is made of, to know that 
there is evil as well as good. Your papa would 
never acquaint you with all that it is necessary 
you should know, because it is to his interest to 
keep you in ignorance of very much that is going 
on in this world, of which you know compara- 
tively nothing. You have to learn that men and 
women are not children in a nursery, that beauty 
is valuable, that a girl possessed of your alto- 
gether exceptional beauty has no right to be con- 
fined as you are. You must withdraw yourself 
firmly from this thralldom, and demand your lib- 
erty; only, of course, do not allude to my disin- 
terested sympathy: for if I found myself in any 
difficulty through helping and advising you, I 
could not conscientiously befriend you again, as 
I consider I am now doing. Your papa is injur- 
ing both you and himself by thus secluding you 
from all, society save that of old Mr. Arden, the 
clergyman. Why, what would you be fit for, 
should any thing happen to Mr.St. Aubyn? You 
could not manage his property and estates, ut- 
terly devoid of experience. You could not go 
forth into the world, because it would be as a 
labyrinth enveloped in mystery. You could not 
face the other sex, or ours. And suppose noth- 
ing ever did happen to Mr. St. Aubyn, of what 
use is it cooping and caging you up here all your 
life? Does your papa suppose—is he so selfish 
as to suppose—you will remain like this all your 
life; that you will never experience a yearning 
for freedom, and desire for other company than 
his own? You have yet to live out the grand 
passion, and after that, if you can remain con- 
tent with your present home, my name is not 
Hortense Brandon. You have to drink of that 
intoxicating draught which woman spends one 
part of her life looking forward to, and the other 
part in looking back upon—that blissful time 
when she feels that one at least in the world is 
her slave; that there is one will imperil life for 
her, bend to her exacting will, fathom her un- 
spoken wish ; one whose happiness depends upon 
her treatment, who will lay at her feet honors 
and wealth, who lives but by her consent. Ah! 
my child, you are ignorant of the rapture attend- 
ing such dominion, when a true heart is yours to 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


wear at your watch-chain, to play with, to sport 
in company, to tease and to torment, to cajole or 
disdain at pleasure; and, when you are tired, to 
throw away, or break ; if you are minded to know 
what it is made of—” 

“T shouldn’t want to know what it was made 
of, so long as I knew it to be all my own.” 

“Ah, very pretty; now I like you for that an- 
Swer; you are again my own wise little woman, 
all good sense and judgment, and you quite agree 
with all that I have been saying to you?” 

“‘T listen—to agree comes afterward.” 

“And in that careful speech I trace your 
thoughts, my child; such things need weighing 
well. But remember, your books will not impart 
a knowledge of the world: believe me, you must 
mix with society for true wisdom, and go to your 
books for dreams; you may often glean more 
from half an hour’s conversation than a whole 
volume will impart, and discover finer language 
in an eye than all the eloquence of your poets 
can put into print.” 

Lena sat with clasped hands, thinking intent- 
ly; her eyes fixed upon the bright star that played 
hide-and-seek with the clouds flitting restlessly 
across the sky, and she felt altogether unhappy. 
Every word the cunning Mentor had spoken, and 
the subtle significance of tone, more stealthy even 
than the words, had sunk deeply into her heart. 
And it was of St. Aubyn that heart was full, for 
the girl was far from being wholly selfish. It 
would take many such lessons of the type deliv- 
ered that evening before she voluntarily wounded - 
that tender and loving being. a a 

“T could never be happy again if I left papa.” - 
“{ do net doubt that he has taken care to im- 
plant that precious notion above all others; but 
what if papa should leave his Lena?” 

‘“‘Such a thing could never happen, Mrs. Bran- 
don! Were it to, I should feel it my duty to re- 
main patient until his return.” 

All was silent in the room; without, upon the 
surface of the garden, the breeze freshened, stir- 
ring the flowers from sleeping, and rustling the 
leaves of the copper-colored trees. Below, at 
base of the cliff, the waves broke with dull, un- 
easy, restless impatience, as though rebellious at 
being held in leash; and, when they smote upon 
the wall of rock and fell back cowered, rose again 
with redoubled fury. The wind scoured the gar- 
den paths with autumnal vindictiveness; some 
drops of rain fell, and the shadows marshaled 
their gloomy ranks with the magnificent disci- 
pline of the war-time of the elements. The girl 
felt depressed ; it was the reaction and the oper- 
ation of atmospheric change upon her sensitively 
organized frame. ni 

“T will go in and say good-night to papa, and 
be off to bed, Mrs. Brandon, for my head aches.” 

“Tt is very oppressive!” Mrs. Brandon rose 
to close the window; a swift gleam of lightning 
played upon the pale woman without her shrink- 
ing; nay, she smiled to it cheerfully; a roll of 
thunder with its terrific echo rattled upon the 
cliff, and seemed to rend it to its base. 

Shrinkingly, Lena hid herself within the thick 
folds of the window-curtain until the reverbera- 
tion ceased. 

“T thought we should have it!” and the com- 
panion pulled the hearth-rug over the fire-irons, 
and leisurely rolled some plain needle-work round 
her knitting-pins. | 

:. 


‘ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“ Good-night, my love”—opening the door for 
Lena—“ I will send Mary to you, and let her bring 
that white dress to my room; I will run the edg- 
ing in as I promised. Good-night.” 

Outside they were somewhat surprised to dis- 
cover Martha Saxe, the cook and housekeeper. 
She was standing very close to the door, and at 
once explained, while dropping a courtesy, that 
she did not know the ladies were there, and 
was coming in to close the window, because of 
the rain. , 


“GOING TO BED, PAPA 


” 


Hortense Brandon’s eyes rested upon the wom- 
an; she felt that every word she had spoken had 
been overheard. Enemies to the death these 
two, they understood each other; but a marked 
difference existed in their regard for St. Aubyn’s 
daughter, whom Martha loved with the dumb 
heroic faithfulness of a by-gone age. 

The pale lady passed silently up the stairs, the 
trail of her black silk robe, sinuous, ebon sheen, 
seeming to coil after her like a retinue of jetty 
snakes, 


69 


Lena was near the first door of St. Aubyn’s 
sanctum. Martha Saxe, who had followed, laid 
a hand, hard and big, but honest, upon the girl’s. 

“Dear Miss Lena, be careful with her; I’m 
sure she means you harm. Don’t let her guide 
you in any one thing. Go only by what your 
papa says, and never do any thing without first 
asking his advice. Forgive this; it is for your 
sake; I mean well.” 

“Mrs. Saxe!” called the clear, ringing voice of 
the pale lady, while leaning over the balusters 


Ky 


? 


above, “‘may I trouble you to kindly ask Mary to 
be good enough to come to me a moment ?” 

“‘T hate her carnying ways,” grumbled Martha 
Saxe, bustling off to comply, while Lena knocked 
lightly at the student’s door. 

“Come in, ladybird!’ And as she entered he 
closed his book, and the proud face, set with 
thought, relaxed to its accustomed charming smile 
when with her. 

“Going to bed, papa!” And she stood before 
him in that pretty attitude little girls assume 


70 


when they propose something they fear may be 
questioned. 

“So soon? Afraid of the lightning, darling ?” 
He never liked her to retire before himself; it was 
the day’s reward, his one choice bonne bouche, that 
hour before bedtime. They had had storms in 
plenty, summer after summer, winter after win- 
ter, but she had never wanted to go to bed be- 
fore; on the contrary, she had flown to him nest- 
ling for protection, hiding her eyes upon his breast, 
his hands closed fast upon her ears. So he looked 
up with the quick apprehensiveness, the instant 
scrutiny, of those who live in the delicacy of pri- 


vate, unguessed, and unfathomed peril. And he 
repeated, 

“So soon, Lena 

“Yes, papa,” with a playful, pitiful, half-sad, 


half-tender, and altogether lovely pouting of the 
rose-bud lips. 

“What is the matter ?” 

“My head aches a little; but I feel wretched, 
papa!” and then the whilom high-spirited girl 
burst into tears. Seriously uneasy, St. Aubyn 
drew her to him, and wiped the tears away; and 
he felt that she was fluttering, and throbbing, and 
much agitated. 

“Good gracious, Lena, my child, what is the 
matter? I never saw you like this before.” 

‘Please, papa, I never was like it before.” 

“What is it, dear ?” 

“Oh, papa, ’m in love at last! And I don’t 
like it, because it makes me unhappy, wanting to 
love you, and you alone.” 

St. Aubyn was taken aback by the naive con- 
fession; then his face darkened, while he breath- 
lessly asked, 

“Do you fully understand the meaning of what 
you tell me, Lena ?” 

“Quite, papa. Are you very angry ?” 

Instead of replying, he lowered the shade over 
his reading-lamp, so that his face was not be- 
trayed; then he asked, in a strangely cold and 
distinct tone of voice, 

‘““And who is the new poet my little girl is in 
love with? what hero in our picture-books ?” 

“No, not this time, papa dear; it is a real live 
one; and I have been thinking of him by day 
and by night, and now I know this is called 
being in love.” 

More distinctly still he questioned the child, 
feeling the agony of wasted confidence, the griev- 
ous awakening from broken dreams. 

“‘ And how does my little girl know this ?” 

An appalling burst of thunder was the fitting 
accompaniment to her reply. 

‘Mrs, Brandon told me, papa.” 

Even from that inner chamber the tumult of 
the billows was plainly, fearfully distinguishable. 
* “But how can this be your experience, my 
child? you have seen no one, have never left our 
house.” 

“No, papa; and she says I ought to see and 
know something of the world by this time.” 

Mr. St. Aubyn’s countenance wore an absolutely 
shocked and horrified expression. 

“Mrs. Brandon seems to have exceeded her 
duties. Had I considered you required enlight- 
ening upon such subjects, I would have acquaint- 
ed you with all that was necessary for you to 
know.” 

Lena lifted up her hands in pretty dismay. 

‘“‘T remember, now, I was not to say a word 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


about it to you; and yet Martha said, ‘ Always go 
by what your papa says, and never do any thing 
without first asking his advice.’ Do you advise 
my loving somebody, papa ?” 

It was of his own fault that she was so igno- 
rant, so innocent, so confiding, so helpless. Could 
he be angry with her, or feel otherwise than pro- 
foundly sad ? 

The corners of the room were all in deep shade, 
their sumptuous ornament hidden by gloom. 
Graven gold and bronzes, Sévres, Dresden, and 
rare Continental fabric; Bow statuettes and Ori- . 
ental vases, Chelsea and Worcester ware, delicate 
as dreams in sun-dawn; a gorgeous Buen Retiro, * 
Louis XIV. ormolu-work, a superb Della Robbia 
relief, antique carving, grotesque fancies from the 
Japan Palace at Dresden, and some choice old 
Wedgwood. Old Lac cabinets, buhl tables and 
exquisite pedestals, bonbonniéres and bijouterie ; 
miniature marbles from Italy and ivories from 
China, classical marqueterie, Venetian paneling, 
cloisonné enamels, turquoise-work of Angouléme, 
Byzantine chasing in dead gems, cameos, intag- 
lios ; Bactrian Tetradrachms, and carvings in jade 
and agate. Egyptian, Rhodian, and Moorish ware; 
Capo di Monte and Vienna, Persian and Turkish 
porcelain; silver torchéres, and a wealth of cost- 
ly trifles colorless in the deep shade, their sump- 
tuous ornament hidden in the gloom, even as 
one’s sacred hopes and dimly lovely longings 
may be shrouded and made dark, robbed of the 
light-lending charm that had rendered them so 
fair. 

Rising from his seat at the table, he led her 
over to the easy-chair in which she had usually 
found him at this peaceful time, right along the 
ten years’ happiness, and, seating himself, he drew 
her toward him, away from the ottoman at his 
feet upon which she had endeavored to sink, ten- 
derly raising her to his knee with the words, 

““T have not much to say, my child, but I wish 
you to forget the past few years for a minute, and 
fancy yourself again the golden-haired darling 
who knew no greater joy or reward than coming 
to this chair for caresses.” 

He drew her head upon his breast, kissing her 
forehead reverently. She had been his lily girl. 
He could not bear to think of that throbbing heat 
which he was conscious crimsoned the snow-white 
brow as though dashed with the fierce glow of 
poppies. 

‘Many a time your head has thus leaned back 
to me, Lena; many a time have I passed my fin- 
gers through your curls in this way; and should 
I like your leaning thus to another, or another’s 
hand to dally with these tresses? Ask yourself, 
my child. Golden flax to richer gold, and thence 
to golden brown, this fleece has changed during 
these ten years before my eyes with the splendor 
of a field of ripening grain, and is this to garland 
another’s triumph? If it is the world you would 
see and learn as others do, and from which my 
chief happiness has been to preserve you, why, 
you may learn its hollowness and mockery under 
my preserving care. But hear first what this 
same world did for me in days gone by. <A dark-- 
ened history I have kept from you purposely— 
one of the histories, grim and tragic, arising out 
of the exactions of that pitiless Moloch—Society. 
I possessed the most beautiful wife it was possi- 
ble for a gentleman of England to call his own, 
and for a time her whole love was mine. Society 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


robbed me of both wife and child—just such an- 
other golden fairy as yourself. Yes, Lena, you 
are not my child! Deprived of those I loved with 
so exquisite and intense a passion, I found in you 
one to supply the place of her I loved the most, 
my child; the other was too deep a wound ever 
to heal. That is the wreck this world you covet 
wrought in my home. Now, knowing all my love 
for you, and how it has been the one joy of all 
these years, you will not ask me to advise you to 
love another? I should have kept this secret 
from you for some time yet, but you have forced its 
disclosure ; yet for your candor and truth, painful 
‘as it is to me, I confess I am honestly grateful.” 

The disclosure broke upon her with startling 
abruptness, very much as might have done one of 
the great thunder volleys without. But she did 
not draw herself away, or feel to love him less. 
It was only strange to realize; and, truth to tell, 
she felt a little lighter-hearted than when St. Au- 
byn began his gentle talking, for she feared re- 
proach; but when it proved that fonder lan- 
guage, she felt nearly overcome by emotion. 
And now she just turned upon him with renewed 
love, for such it was, blended with sympathy, 
and, twining her arms about him, she assured 
those greedy ears of her unalterable love. 

Suddenly they both heard a cry—a heart-rend- 
ing appeal as of some one 2m articulo mortis, and 
the master of the house upon the cliff, starting to 
his feet, listened intently. 

“Tt is the yachtsmen,” he said; “they fear 
striking upon the rock; there is no preventing 
it: but it may be possible to render assistance 
afterward.” 

He unbarred the window and looked forth. A 
great darkness was upon the face of the water, 
illumined by shifting gleams of lightning. Lena 
trembled, thinking of the yacht. 

“We should help those poor men,” she said. 

St. Aubyn looked narrowly into the clear and 
truthful eyes, and he read nothing there but the 
natural solicitude one would expect from a sensi- 
tive and excited child. 

“Retire to your chamber, pretty one; leave 
Williams and myself to do the best that can be 
done.” 

The frightened girl obeyed. St. Aubyn hastily 
summoned his servant, and ordered that lights 
should be placed at every window, and a large 
fire lighted on the cliff within view of those upon 
the sea. 

It was one of those breathless moments which 
seem laden with peril, when the delay of an in- 
stant may be attended with disaster, and when 
one can scarcely move for apprehension and ex- 
citement. 

Amidst the bustle Lena could not forget those 
most interested; imaginary pictures of the en- 
dangered yachtsman in every possible and im- 
possible attitude of peril and dismay flashed be- 
fore her with each lurid shaft of lightning, and 
culminated in a tableau of painful intensity at 
the moment a huge pillar of smoke, followed by 
a bright column of fire, rose from the beacon 
and lighted up the scene. ’ 

Like a castle in flames, the weird spectacle of 
some historic tragedy upon the border in the old- 
en days, the mansion stood forth, every white 
stone reddened; while at the windows each wax- 
en light blazed starry hope to those below. 

It was another roseate picture, but not of the 


71 


sunset; yet somehow fraught with more interest 
to her, her soul seeming to go forth with those 
flashes of light descending to the seething water, 
her heart seeming to leap with those bright 
tongues of flame; each gust of wind, fanning the 
fire, causing her to turn faint and pale. In the 
foreground the shadowy shrubs and clumped 
masses were like some barrier between her and 
the fire, all the surroundings gray, indistinct, and 
shapeless. The girl’s heart, as once before that 
evening, throbbed, and her blood burned fiercely, 
mounted to her temples, crept about the white 
throat, and nestled there like an adder of red-hot 
gold, while her eyelids seemed overweighted with 
flowers of the crimson hour. 

Meanwhile resignation prevailed upon the 
yacht ; the canvas had been furled and all precau- 
tion taken. Brown, the experienced seaman of 
fifty years, had declared nothing could save them, 
they would be dashed full upon the sharp ridge 
of rock looming out of the black water, a corner 
every fisherman had avoided long before Ashton 
St. Aubyn built him a house upon the summit ; 
and then the old seaman had raised that shout 
heard by the inmates of the mansion. William 
Arden took the sudden catastrophe with the fine 
aplomb characteristic of his class, and was pre- 
pared to breast the waves and chance a scramble 
with cool decisive bravery; he only said, 

“Tf I go down, Brown, old fellow, give my love 
to my father. Tell him I should have taken high 
honors this term had I been spared.” 

He did not think of the beautiful girl who, like 
Lurline, had allured him to this peril; it was of 
his father he thought in the hour of extremity. 
Even the delight of being broken to pieces at the 
foot of the rock she lived upon did not strike 
this phlegmatic young man; he merely shrugged 
his shoulders, muttering, ‘Helen again!” and 
straightway forgot her; to think of more serious 
things, such as preserving his silver-topped meer- 
schaum, the gift of a college friend; his sketch- 
es and materials, and a choice Didot, his favor- 
ite volume when he courted the dolce far niente. 

Brown, with the saturnine good humor of these 
rough amphibious philosophers, watched every vi- 
olent upheaving of their frail cockle-shell with un- 
disturbed serenity. Whether he was to be saved 
from the devouring element was a question of 
uncertainty troubling him not at all; but wheth- ~ 
er his young master was to be preserved became 
a more vital matter, and to effect this he would 
fight these fierce waters with all the energy left 
in his old limbs. 

“Let me just put this round your body, girth- 
fashion, Mr. William; do now,Sir. And Ill stay 
aboard with the end of it until you’re safely land- 
ed,” pleaded the honest fellow, tenderly, and as 
solicitously as though the young man had been 
his own son. It was a slim yet strong rope, the 
loop of which he had softened by means of a 
length of canvas. Touched by this regard, Will- 
iam took his hand and pressed it hastily, while 
kindly declining. 

“‘ Noy old friend, I shall be better unimpeded, 
and must take my chance as any other; we will 
strike out both together, and God help us! But 
if I only escape, owing to my youth and strength, 
I will be a good friend to the wife and children ; 
so don’t let that trouble you, Brown.” 

“It doesn’t, Sir ; ve commended ’em to Higher 
hands so many times afore, I safely leave’em now.” 


72 


At that moment a bright gleam flamed upon 
the cliff and shone upon the sea, and light after 
light appeared at those tiers of windows high 
above their heads, and it was like hope speak- 
ing out from the darkness of awful peril; it was 
like home awaiting tired, tempest-beset travellers. 

“They are expecting us, you see,” cried Will- 
iam Arden, cheerfully. Even while the storm 
drowned the reply, and the men’s faces became 
fixed as though bared to eternity, the acceler- 
ated force of mighty billows, lashed to ungovern- 
able fury, bore the vessel with a crash upon the 
rock, firm and cruel and white as a phalanx of 
steel. Only a miracle would have averted it, and 
they took their leap for life. A riven, splintered 
hulk fell back to the water, which tore in at the 
gap, victoriously rushing with frenzied glee over 
the dismantled citadel surrendered to the raging 
foe. 

The men battled bravely, blinded with spray, 
beaten with foam; struggled with the heaving 
water, mounting and rearing above the billows, 
fighting with the cowardly surge that, soft as 
wool, enveloped them, breasting the pitiless, cut- 
ting edges of wide waves mowing all before them, 
shaking rain and salt from their faces and closed 
eyelids, lifting arms like men for mighty effort; 
and plunging forward with the strength of steeds 
in the thick of conflict for the hazardous, hope- 
less, misty rock shelving ahead of them. A giant 
wave, an ebon mountainous mass that smote them, 
and bore them asunder, hurled them upon an op- 
posing mass, one other tremendous wave, and they 
were swept and rolled and dashed helpless and 
insensible upon a jagged and gnarled table abut- 
ting from the ledge of which mention has been 
made. And here they were laid and left as though 
the frantic waters, tired of their fury, were satis- 
fied with the havoc they had wrought. 

And now a strange thing happened. 

Guided by the fitful gleams of lightning, a fig- 
ure crept with difficulty toward the first of the 
victims: There was immediate danger of being 
blown from the narrow vantage-ground, and this 
figure moved slowly and as though exhausted, for 
he too had been pressed close by this same storm, 
and his strength was far spent; but he believed 
it was in trying to save himself this trouble had 
come upon them. It was John Beech—not dead 
yet, and, even under these disadvantageous cir- 
cumstances, devising in his rude fashion the down- 
fall of that proud foe who had been all but suc- 
cessful in his method of settling an old account. 
Only let John Beech stand once again on terra 
firma, and give him time and opportunity, he prom- 
ised himself sweet satisfaction! Altogether, from 
the number of hunters, our lion Noel should be 
netted ere the snow fall. 

Kneeling as he had often knelt by some pros- 
trate prize-fighter or vietim of some drunken 
brawl, John Beech raised young Arden’s sea- 
drenched head, and, parting the matted curls, 
stared hard at the white face, while the lightning 
favored the inspection; and then he felt, not for 
the heart, but for the gold repeater and the 
purse: he had no thought or intention of doing 
the young man the least injury, but for safety’s 
sake removed these to his own keeping. All at 
once he became aware of something moving 
above, something coming down upon him, and 
for an instant the brute courage he possessed 
in plenty blenched and was shaken, for he imag- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ined it to be a fragment of rock detached from 
the mass above. He put out his hand to save 
himself, and caught the object, which proved to 
be a basket suspended by a thick rope, which 
Williams and St. Aubyn had lowered for the 
wrecked. The basket contained a small flask of 
brandy, and this he drank off at once, then upon 
the strength of it commenced ascending by means 
of the rope; being of portly habit, the ascent 
was slow, but those above facilitated this by 
drawing in the rope, happily ignorant of its 
freightage. John Beech’s cause was aided by 
the fact of the fire having burned itself out, 
while the one lantern was of course useless in 
such weather. He was over the brink on the 
right side almost before his preservers were 
conscious of his nearness to the summit; and, 
breaking away, he glided among the dark shrubs, 
the astonished Williams pausing from pursuit at 
a call from his master. Both were startled by 
this event, and St. Aubyn could not suppose it to 
have connection with the yacht. Who then was 
this? However, it was not the time to indulge 
in speculation, and he gave orders for the lower- 
ing of the rope once more. While John Beech 
was scaling the palisade and making good his es- 
cape, the master and the faithful servitor were 
repeating their humane attempt, but without suc- 
cess; there was no response, no pulling at the 
rope, no sign of life from below; then Williams 
said, 

“T’m afraid they are insensible, Sir, if, they 
are not dead; but by your leave I will fasten 
this end to a tree-trunk and go down and see.” 

“ By all means.” 

The result of this was the arduous feat of 
mounting with the yachtsman, performed with 
safety, not mentioning a variety of knocks and 
bruises ; and St. Aubyn had the young man con- 
veyed to one of the sleeping apartments of the 
house, and, after getting him hastily into a bed, 
left the sufferer in the worthy hands of Martha 
Saxe, while returning to his work of mercy. 

Martha had not been sitting by the bedside 
very long when there came a gentle knock upon 
the door, and outside stood Lena, of course urged 
on by Mrs. Brandon, standing back within the 
shadow. She had been unable to contain herself 
any longer, and, running to the companion’s room, 
begged she would accompany her upon a quest of 
curiosity. 

“Wait, my dear little girl, wait!” The pale 
lady quietly added, in her usual composed 
manner, 

“He will be brought here presently, when you 
will naturally feel anxious, and go to see how the 
unfortunate young man progresses !”’ Hence this 
ultimate visit to the chamber appropriated to his 
use; but here an unexpected obstacle opposed 
the inquiry in the person of Martha Saxe, who, 
rising from her chair with a determined expres- 
sion, stood in the doorway, and would permit 
neither to pass. , 

“Excuse me, Miss Lena, and you also, ma’am, 
but Jam in charge here, and can allow no one to 
enter at present.” 

“But, my good woman—” remonstrated Mrs. 
Brandon, “are you aware whom you are speak- » 
ing to? A pretty mark of respect to our young 
lady, I must confess !” 

“In my respect I yield to no one, ma’am ; per- 
haps I have Miss Lena’s interest as much at 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


heart as yourself. Anyway, this is no sight for 
her to look upon, and look upon it she shall not.” 

The attitude taken was so resolute, Mrs. Bran- 
don at once withdrew ; she depended upon finesse 
—the opportunity was not far distant. 

“Come, my dear, it is always policy to avoid 
open rupture with the inferior order of beings.” 

Martha Saxe heard, as it was intended she 
should, and, re-opening the door, she asked, 

“Pray do you call yourself a superior order of 
being, ma’am ?” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Saxe, I do!” replied Hortense, with 
her most withering smile. 

“Then, ma’am, I am utterly without ambi- 
tion; and, so saying, Honesty bustled back to 
her nursing. Toward dawn the patient became 
sensible to surrounding things, and to a kind 
hand smoothing his pillow. 

“Where am I?” he asked, feebly; ‘and Brown 
—is the old man safe? Ican only remember tak- 
ing to the waves.” 

“You are in the house above the cliff, Sir; my 
master and our man saved you from being blown 
or washed from the rock. You are to receive 
every attention, but not to leave this room, as my 
master is very particular, and never allows the 
privacy of this house to be disturbed. Since he 
has saved your life, I suppose you will scarcely 
do less than regard his wishes ?”’ 

“Certainly, my good soul, else I should make 
but poor return for his kindness. As soon as I 
am well enough I will take my departure, and 
with as much quietness as possible.” 

“Thank you, Sir; I knew you were a gentle- 
man ;” and Martha Saxe crossed her hands over 
the white apron with complacent satisfaction. 
After that he fell into a gentle sleep, which 
greatly restored him. When he opened his eyes 
it was broad daylight. A tasteful chamber, flow- 
ers, sunshine, distant sound of music, and a girl’s 
voice of an exquisite sweetness, formed a vivid 
contrast to the events of the night, and the new 
vigor gained by such refreshing rest so inspired 
him that he arose and dressed, finding his clothes 
all dried and folded by the bedside. His nurse, 
taking advantage of the calm sleep, had -gone 
_ down stairs to her breakfast. The promise he 
had made to Martha went to pieces with other 
bubbles of those sleep-disturbing dreams; and 
the remembrance of his nurse went with them, it 
was all as a shadow of the night. He listened to 
the sound of the voice—it could be none other 
than the fair girl of the garden, and he would 
ascertain for himself if her beauty confirmed the 
promise of his glass. Thus do accidents thwart 
the best of purposes. 

He entered a chamber like a very bower, and 
there, framed in by blush-roses, shadowed by 
garlands, tinted by tender hues, with an incense 
of sweet perfume rising around her, sat the prin- 
cess at a white and gold harp, upon which she 
evoked the soft strains of enchantment. Un- 
aware of his entrance, she was gazing through 
the trellis of flowers at the cloudless sky beyond, 
singing a dainty carol, one of St. Aubyn’s lessons 
of love. A simple morning gown of blue and 
white striped cambric, with one of her favorite 
roses below the throat, was the charming dress 
she wore; but its pretty childishness was in itself 
more becoming than all her robes of royalty, and 
to the tired and satiated eyes of this man of many 
cities it seemed the very realization of his most 


73 


poetic imagination. Mrs. Brandon had gone to 
her chamber for her accustomed half-hour’s re- 
tirement after breakfast. It really seemed as 
though every thing favored this intrepid cavalier. 

He was careful not to interrupt that sweet 
minstrelsy, but, seating himself with quiet com- 
posure at the table, he began turning over the 
leaves and pictures of a Book of Beauty, and al- 
though the illustrations were quite upon an aver- 
age with the portraits in such productions, they 
looked positively haggard when compared with 
that bright young face among the roses, 

When Lena arose upon the impulse she saw 
this cool and graceful stranger; so very much at 
home, even her spirit rose with antagonism. It 
was mortifying! An interesting invalid whom 
she believed half drowned, and who, according 
to her ethics of fiction, ought at this time to 
have been in a raging fever, uttering her name 
in broken interjections of his delirium, or some- 
thing equally dreadful, which she could just peep 
in upon to hear; was, actually—sitting at her 
own little table of Poetical Caskets, Garlands of 
Lyrics, and Books of Beauty, and that with the 
most perfect self-possession, as though she had 
played and sung for his pleasure ; a man—and a 
stranger, when she was scarcely permitted to 
know of the existence of such beings. She felt 
in a rage, and yet too embarrassed to give ex- 
pression to her annoyance, so she just said noth- 
ing, standing there as though she, and not he, 
were the culprit, her cheeks rivaling the roses, 
her eyes, even in drooping, so full of language 
no words were needed, leaning to her harp as for 
protection, looking anxiously at the door which 
she could not reach without passing him. 

“Tf I hadn’t wanted Mrs. Brandon,” she 
thought, ‘‘she would have been meddling about 
here whether I liked it or no! I wish she would 
come in now.” 

But the stranger rose with a pleasing smile, 
with so disarming an assurance, she was incapa- 
ble of preserving further resentment, and, lifting 
her head, permitted her eyes to dwell with a very 
interested and absorbed candor upon William 
Arden’s face. 

“Forgive my coming here—blame the alluring 
charm of your music. I came also to thank Mr. 
St. Aubyn for his kindness of last night. I owe 
my life to the efforts of himself and those who 
assisted him, and, being of a very grateful na- 
ture, I could not wait until some one came to me; 
I have brought my thanks to you. Say that you 
forgive me—say—bless my heart, I forgot to tell 
you my name—I am William Arden, son of Mr. 
Arden, the clergyman, your father’s friend.” 

“What!” cried Lena, with unaffected pleasure, 
“are you Willie?” She had so often heard the 
old pastor praise his boy as being every thing 
that was good and chivalrous, courtly and cul- 
tured, she welcomed the acquaintance with cor- 
dial greeting; and surely when St. Aubyn knew 
who this was, even he would not feel angry. 
Had he not over and over again asked how Willie 
was? How Willie was getting on? Did Willie 
continue in Oxford, or Germany, or London, or 
Paris, as the case might be? It had been Willie 
this and Willie that, until the name and the boy 
had been a sort of friend, and hence the girl, with 
the spontaneous, impetuous, child-like ‘warmth 
natural to her, held out her hand with, 

* And you are Willie ?” 


74 


“Yes,” he answered, with a frank smile, ‘I am 
Willie,” giving the hand a cordial shake, “ and 
so glad to know you!” 


es 


CHAPTER XXIII. 
FROM THE THRONE OF LIONS. 


Lapy Hrten Darrett had remained at the 
Bedford until Grunden had completely fitted up 
the mansion according to her ladyship’s own ex- 
clusive taste: in a style surely never before seen 
upon the earth. A curve, a line, an angle, not in 
exact symmetry, not the most gorgeous of hues, 
not the very quintessence of barbarian taste, and 
the feature was objected to and must be removed, 
even though involving days of labor. Cleopatra 
was not more fastidiously sumptuous or outrage- 
ously inelegant. That fossil chieftain the old 
Lord Darrell, who stood in wholesome awe of his 
haughty and overbearing daughter, and who could 
have contented himself with the humble lodge at 
the gates of one of his estates, viewed the surfeit 
of magnificence preparing for their habitation 
with a sort of stupor. To remonstrate with Lady 
Helen was, if not certain execution, the next thing 
to it, for it was the process of being slowly frozen 
to death. The glance of Lady Helen’s eyes, if 
directed in indignation or scorn, was more scath- 
ing than the lightning; but the blighting and 
withering effect of Lady Helen’s voice, when 
Lady Helen chose, defies similitude. All her life 
long, pride had been no name for the quality she 
pre-eminently possessed; but, after a certain dis- 
aster never mentioned by herself or father—a 
private catastrophe the well-bred forget as quick- 
ly as possible—Lady Helen’s whole innate hauteur 
became consolidated to an intensity of bitterness 
without any parallel and without any precedent. 

When Lady Helen condescended to allow her- 
self to be loved by a mortal, condescended to 
permit that mortal to wed her, it was in a cold 
and queenly style and after the fashion of a mar- 
ble Juno. There was abundance of exquisite 
languor, an excess of polished graciousness, but 
never a shade of warmth beyond the rare splen- 
dor of her robing. 

Men in Society, who dared to admire at a dis- 
tance, called her the “Queen of Night.” The 
decorations of sullen gold, the heavy flush of 
crimson, the dense velvet trappings—color of 
huge purple grapes and amber, sensuous as the 
head-gear of an odalisque—lent effect to, but did 
not in any degree heighten, the arrogant beauty 
of this woman, whose attractiveness was of that 
order which keeps men at bay, and leaves wom- 
en out of the world altogether. Her advent in 
Brighton naturally created an extraordinary sen- 
sation: rumor marshaled her approach; Society 
was apprized that the combination of empress 
and goddess for which it had been waiting from 
the days of Helen of Troy downward was upon 
the eve of appearing in the stately person of 
Helen, Lady Darrell. Unfortunately she did not 
accompany Lord Darrell when he made his entrée, 
it being a fancy of her ladyship’s to disappoint 
every one if possible, and when not inconvenient 
to herself. Lord Darrell appeared alone, in a 
sumptuous chariot, upon the King’s Road; and 
he was closely criticised, the curt estimate being 
that his lordship was decidedly foxy. The fact 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


was—a natural fact, and one for which his lord- 
ship was in no way accountable—the prevailing 
color of his external presentment was red. This 
nobleman had, indeed, a singularly dry and with- 
ered appearance, reminding one, not inaptly, of 
an autumn leaf. In or out of Society her lady- 
ship ignored his lordship; he was quietly retain- 
ed as one of the establishment, that was all. A 
wit, who by her icy hauteur had been aggrieved, 
once alluded to her ladyship as ‘that sphinx of 
the old red sandstone ;” one of her army of maids 
heard of this, and, owing a grudge for dismissal, 
persuaded the being she kept company with to ~ 
write it anonymously, and, his ealigraphy being 
the reverse of ungentlemanly, her ladyship actu- 
ally read the abominable epigram; and, never 
having experienced any astonishing regard for 
this or any other member of the Darrell family, 
she from that moment took inveterate dislike to 
her geological progenitor. It did not materially 
affect his lordship, who, partly from inability and 
partly upon principle, made a point of never feel- 
ing, never seeing, and never knowing any thing. 
He lived, indeed, a life of utter stagnation; he 
had been quietly dropped out of the world by his 
own and by other people, and he infinitely pre- 
ferred to remain there. Possibly he learned 
more without than he had ever had an opportu- 
nity of learning within; be that as it may, how- 
ever, it is an indisputable fact that he had been 
quenched, totally extinguished, for a period long 
anterior to the date commencing this narrative. 
When, therefore, the select saw Lord Darrell, 
their apprehensions with regard to the approach- 
ing sovereign were comfortably removed. One 
can generally judge of a child by the data pre. 
sented in its parent. But, with her state entry 
and progress of subjugation, Lady Darrell was 
not destined to enjoy all the sweets of victory; 
for that self-same day her ladyship returned to 
her splendid drawing-room the most wretched of 
women. A man had passed her side, the one 
man she permitted herself the condescension of 
hating, and him she did hate as only Lady Dar- 
rell could. That man, Noel Barnard, was the 
cause of all her misery! She had seen him 
mounted upon a superb steed, as usual, riding 
with the old grace she knew so well, looking as 
imposing, aS conquering, as proud, and as un- 
yielding as herself. She had met him once in 
India, she believed he was in India still, hoped 
with a devout hope Juggernaut or some other 
powerful engine had done for him; and here, 
upon the very day of her state entrance, she en- 
countered the old enemy more imperious and au- 
tocratic than ever. “ And this man,” mused Lady 
Darrell, ‘what washe? What—was—he—when 
I—quitted—my—senses—and—positively loved 
him? Ay, and not with a passion like that my 
sex calls love! He was to me all that a hero is, 
and more than a lover is ever expected to be, 
even by the most exacting. Was he a prince 
of the blood royal, or a tributary potentate of 
enormous wealth and most ancient lineage, de- 
scended of a dynasty dating with the stars; or 
some scion of the noblesse as honored as, though 
not equal to, my ancestors? I think not, and, if 
my memory serves me right, the person taught me 
drawing!” And, with ineffable disgust, the lady 
crouched for very shame among the velvet cush- 
ions of her carriage. She might have added— 
but, as we say, these ugly circumstances are res- 


4 


> 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


olutely forgotten—that this same man had also 
taught her to forsake the being whose name and 
home she had condescended to share: a name as 
honored and noble as her own, and a grand old 
home approved even by her fine taste, abandoned 
in the hour of that sore weakness; and, more 
than these, and more than heart and soul had 
ever recovered, the lasting secret of her imbit- 
tered life—her child. The illusion was quickly 
at an end, and, as a matter of course, Lady Helen 
returned to her parental home, resumed the old 
sway, then travelled; lived years in India, where 
English scandal fails to reach (so tradition treas- 
ures), and there saw him once more; returned to 
England, and in the famous southern town she 
encountered him again. And how did this affect 
her now? It was the problem vexing the proud 
lady throughout the remainder of the drive. Of 
course she was sufficiently human to feel morti- 
fied; although why she should experience pro- 
longed annoyance at the occurrence was more 
than she could divine. There was nothing be- 
tween them now; they were even as utter 
strangers. Had she returned to her husband, 
there might have been cause for dread; she had 
not—she was much too proud for that—and what 
was there now to fear? 

“No, not fear,” repeated Lady Helen to her- 
self, “‘ but to be displeased with !” 

A morning or two afterward the lady was seat- 
ed in her drawing-room, a chamber draped with 
mulberry-colored and rich amber velvet curtains: 
no looping or festooning, with disclosure of cost- 
ly panels, or plates of pellucid mirrors, but the 
broad outspreading sweep of massive hangings, 
thick and weighty as looms could furnish. The 
autumn was coming, and Lady Darrell had no 
thought or intention of permitting vagrant 
draughts to enter. The thick, velvet-like carpet 
was of no fantastic pattern: broad bands of am- 
ber on a black ground—her ladyship disdained 
the trickery of design. Give her severity of a 
mighty line, color of the glorious Orient. If peo- 
ple expected to see her drawing-room so elegant- 
ly furnished, she would disappoint them; would 
introduce the downright heathenish to this town 
-of Sybarites! At intervals huge skins of jungle 
beasts were spread upon the floor. By the black 
marble and gold mantel, where for warmth a 
sofa might have been placed, was a singular con- 
struction formed from designs furnished by her- 
self (Lady Darrell was a skilled proficient with 
the pencil); a long, low seat, the supports of 
which were the feet of lions, the arms and rests 
made of the half forms—far as the mane’s ex- 
tent—of lions, with all the grand breadth of head 
preserved; and the covering was also of the 
skins of these animals, luxuriously padded and 
stuffed, and overthrown with velvet, soft and 
odorous as toilet sachets, deep purple velvet em- 
broidered with gold. No couch could have been 
appointed more luxuriously. 

Upon one point only, perhaps, did Lady Helen 
agree with the mortal she had condescended to 
wed, and that was the love of this Eastern order 
of house-furnishing. It is probable their tastes 
were identical in this respect, and it is a circum- 
stance to make note of. 

The wood-work in the apartment was scarce, 
and choice either for quaintness of carving or 
pleasantness of odor. No tables, sideboards, or 
those convenient rests for trifles our civilization 


75 


deems correct; but solid pedestals of marble, 
the yellow marbles of Syria, Siena, and Aragon, 
sculpt in resemblance of classic work, and the 
blue bardiglio of Carrara, having black base- 
ments chased with gold. Columns bearing Flor- 
entine statuettes, and handsome slabs from Nu- 
midia, upon which, Parian mythology. It was 
all a stern, defiant protest, and a challenge to 
opinion. 

It was as though the softness and ease of her 
life had departed, and the roseate hues which 
seem to cover the life’s dream of other women 
had faded from the horizon of her destiny. 

Her private maid appeared, and—would my 
lady receive a gentleman wishing to see her ? 

Lady Darrell glanced at the card and inclined 
her head; she became thoughtful and sombre, 
not stirring, even when Mr. Barnard, at whom 
she scarcely looked, entered the room. She 
might, for all visible sign, have been chiseled 
from one of .those Syrian blocks. She asked, 
coldly, : 

“ What do you require with me, Sir?” 

“Permission to sit down. After that, your 
quiet attention.” 

She bowed very slightly, a cold, hard, haughty 
assent; it had little effect upon Noel Barnard, 
for whom the treatment came late in the day. 
He sat down; no one could be more quiet than 
her ladyship; and he opened his business 
abruptly. 

“T told you once I never failed to pay old 
debts.” She looked up at the sinister hissing 
tones. ‘“‘Do you remember the miniature we 
quarreled over, the girl I told you I had loved ? 
I, to whom all human emotions are strange; I, 
who was spurned from her presence, and ignobly 
expelled her house!” He waited, livid at the 
memory, and she calmly said, 

“Do you think I can forget ?” 

“No. We are not of the forgetting class. I 
have only to tell you I have kept my word. Li- 
onel Travers fled to a suicide’s grave to escape 
dishonor; Ella Travers and her child are pau- 
pers, wandering the land!” 

At mention of the word child, the proud wom- 
an seemed galvanized to sudden life and energy. 
Starting to her feet, standing erect with head 
thrown back, and hands tightly clasped together, 
she cried, 

“Where are my children, Noel Barnard ? 
Alas! I am more ill-fated than Medea, wretch 
that I have been !” 

“T would gladly tell you if it were in my power 
to do so; I can tell you of owr child, but will not; 
I would tell you of your child, but can not.” 

“This mystery is brutal; do you think I have 
no mother’s feeling ?” 

“Even wolves have occasional fits of tender- 
ness; your ladyship will be true to the species. 
After abandoning one child, and conveniently 
disregarding the other through all the tender 
and helpless period of existence, you will proba- 
bly feel enabled to live your day and play your 
hollow part in the drama of Society, unaffected 
by the history of those girls; one of whom, my 
daughter, is well provided for, and I will take 
good care continues to be.” 

“Tf she is with you, let me see her, if only for 
five minutes. I will not disclose the truth.” 

“She is not with me; even if she were, I 
would not grant your prayer. A woman like 


76 


yourself forfeits the right to recognize her off- 
spring.” 

Lady Darrell sank down upon the couch with 
a low moan, lying there between the fierce, un- 
pitying lions, and gasping forth her sole excuse: 

“You know I placed his child with an honest 
woman, and paid her liberally, intending for my 
love’s sake to see my child often. I could not 
tell I should be dealt treacherously with. But 
have you no suspicion of her whereabouts ?” 

“T may or may not have, but certainly shall 
not acquaint you whether or no. It was an 
idiot’s trick bringing her with you.” 

“You forget I loved my child; a creature like 
you can know nothing of parental love.” 

Mr. Barnard shrugged his shoulders. 

“Did I not, just now, impress you with my so- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“ Reserve your enthusiasm until you meet her, 
and don’t interrupt me again, for I am off to town 
by the express. Mrs. Vincent loved the Manor, 
Sleperton.” 

Lady Helen clinched her hand fast, holding by 
the mane of one of her lions, as to check the out- 
burst upon her tongue. Relentless, coolly meth- 
odical, the narrator proceeded : 

‘“‘Mrs. Vincent loved her son Lorry—” 

“ Whatever has this to do with it?” cried the 
lady, unable any longer to restrain her indigna- 
tion at the matter disclosed, and the aggravating 
manner of the disclosure. 

“This. Mrs. Vincent selected the Manor for 
a nice quiet home for Lorry ; selected Lord Lin- 
don for a nice quiet husband for herself. She re- 
lied upon a divorce.” 


“LADY DARRELL GLANCED AT THE CARD.” 


licitude for our girl? But, seriously, you would 
never have brought the child away had it not 
been for the representations of Mrs. Vincent— 
your friend.” 

“My false friend!” 

“You may well say that. Do you know why 
this fascinating woman became our go-between, 
conveyed letters to you, not to mention messages 
of her own, and painted me the angel I decided- 
ly was not? I will tell you, and impart a lesson 
upon the choice of female friends.” 

“T never had a friend in my life!” cried Lady 
Helen, angrily. 

‘“‘More’s the pity ; ’ve had several, even I. Mrs. 
Vincent loved your husband, Lord Lindon.” 

“She? The viper !” 


“ And you helped her ?” 

“ Not at all; I liked his lordship too well. He 
is the only man I ever thought highly of ; but— 
I liked you better, and I availed myself of Mrs. 
Vincent’s assistance in transmitting letters to you. 
For any incidental and attendant lies it pleased 
that ingenious woman to throw in gratuitously, I 
could not be responsible, could 1? But be toler- 
ant with her, for she is a thorough artist—too 
much so, indeed, for me, or I should long ago have 
enrolled her in our corps.” 

‘“‘T do not wish to hear any conversation of this’ 
kind, Sir; but reducing your vulgarism to practi- 
cal significance, it is clear, I think, that this per- 
son, in whom I placed a certain amount of trust, 
is no better than a low conspirator.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Very low, compared with the stately carriage 
of your ladyship.” 

She laughed a dry, rattling laugh, looking down 
upon the broad bands of amber, and seeming to 
measure back the years by these. “Yes; you 
had plenty of such phrases then. Strange they 
should have seemed so sweet to me! What fools 
some women are!” 

“ You are becoming positively cynical. Take 
care, or you will spoil the inherent sweetness of 
your nature.” 

Without heeding the sarcasm, she suddenly 
asked, 

“Do you know if Lord Lindon is in England ?” 

“Lord Lindon—is—dead.” ‘ 

The reply came so suddenly, without any fore- 
warning, she was stricken speechless; so sudden- 
ly, she never questioned its truth; so emphatic- 
ally, it fell like a death-blow. All unknown to 
any, scarcely admitted even to herself, she had 
treasured and lived on in the hope of a reconcil- 
iation. In her gentler moods, when, at rare in- 
tervals, the womanly and the tender took posses- 
sion of her, and her whole being was suffused 
with a more human influence, she had dared to 
dwell on this, until tears would start—the only 
time she could ever weep—and something of a 
prayer, a crystal in the rock, would rise and frame 
to words, and the proud woman would plead for 
the restoration of her lost home and husband, 
and her child. And this had seldom been; her 
nature was too unyielding, and it seemed so ut- 
terly impossible. But to hear it all crushed in 
this cruel way, with a brevity so bitter, stayed 
the pulsation, and left her thrilled with a sudden 
horror. It was more than even her arctic self- 
possession could endure; and throwing her arms 
upon the tawny skins beside her, long, taper 
hands hanging listlessly down, wide bands of gold 
upon the white arms, she burst into a passionate 
flood of tears, bowing her proud face low, even to 
the lion chilling her, by its cold dead majesty. 

Mr. Barnard raised his eyeglass, and inspected 
the appointments of the chamber with a curious 
expression; walked its length, and lifted the heavy 
fold of curtain, letting it fall with a muffled echo- 
ing dismally suggestive. With his finger-nails 
upon the marble he beat a refrain that set the 
mourning woman quivering again, then came up 
to her and lightly touched her upon the shoulder, 
she shrinking back loathingly. 

“ Are we to be friends or not ?” he asked; and 
she looked up, her eyes red with weeping. 

“T would not be friends with you,” she said, 
rocking herself to and fro with excess of pain, 
and never thinking of the words thus spoken, 
‘were there no other being upon the face of the 
earth—as, indeed, there is not for me now!” 

“Oho! that’s it, is it? Well, the contrariety 
of spirit is a study of itself; and as I devote my 
whole life to study, I am thankful for the oppor- 
tunity I have had of enlarging my experience. 
But I came to propose something to you. The 
old place, Sleperton Manor-house, is going to rack 
and ruin ; you are still Lady Lindon in the eyes 
of the world, which knows little or nothing of the 
affair. Why not return to it? Live as secluded 
as you like, but by all means live there. You 
have just returned from a long residence in India ; 
no better opportunity could serve. You have the 
legitimate right to take possession; do so, and 
one day you will admit yourself indebted for the 


77 


suggestion. At the present time Mrs. Vincent 
has the run of the place; you surely have the 
most right to dwell beneath that roof.” 

The words sank deep. She knew him too well 
to be deceived by the apparent fairness of his 
suggestion. Just so much as suited her she was 
content to agree with, leaving the rest to the 
strata of vulgarity she never recognized. 

‘““ Yes,” she said, reviving wonderfully, ‘“ there 
is truth in what you say. I will return to Sleper- 
ton; I will resume possession.” 

It was not often that Mr. Barnard permitted an 
expression of pleasure to light up his sardonic 
countenance, but the grim face now wore a posi- 
tively cheerful aspect; not a whit more ingra- 
tiating, however, to the Lady Helen. 

“Tt will be a pity, leaving this saffron bower ; 
but most of your properties appear movable, and 
you will have a more extended area for the dis- 
play of this unique taste.” 

The door opened, and Lord Darrell walked quiet- 
ly in, glided to a shadowy corner, where, behind 
a yellow pillar, he lapsed into the tawny hue of 
the skin upon which he had seated himself. Un- 
spoken to and unspeaking, a ray of shrouded light 
stealing across the floor, he appeared, disappear- 
ed, and was no more. Now what an interesting 
destiny must this be! One meets with odd char- 
acters in life, and eras of singular experience, but 
commend us to the old red sandstone period for 
something truly exciting ! 

“‘T shall remain in Brighton until the close of 
the season,” remarked Lady Helen, noticing nei- 
ther her father nor the visitor, and apparently ad- 
dressing herself as though framing the course of 
future movements; “I shall only stay in town a 
fortnight in December, and re-open Sleperton 
Manor-house with the New Year.” 


- Or? 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
‘WALTER GORDON’S’”’ PILGRIMAGE. 


THE grave charge brought by Mr. Barnard 
against his “‘articled pupil” was perfectly cor- 
rect: that intelligent youth had made good his 
retreat. But the slight exaggeration of his hav- 
ing decamped with valuable papers was not cor- 
rect. ‘‘ Walter Gordon” quitted the office of her 
whilom protector without so much as a scrap of 
paper or any thing else. Contriving to cross the 
road unobserved, she snatched a hurried inter- 
view with Gabrielle, who, pressing upon ‘‘ Wal- 
ter” her entire stock of ready money, and explain- 
ing the road leading to Hertfordshire, secured her 
safe escape from the house and street. Stand- 
ing alone in the crowded streets of London, she 
realized again the terrible lot of the unprotected. 
To be unprotected is sufficient disaster, but when 
to this is added the ever-present fear of being 
tracked by some enemy, the desolateness becomes 
complete. 

A waif upon the world! Anxious to obtain 
some means of livelihood by honest work, and 
discovering how very difficult it is even to secure 
this graceless concession on the part of fortune! 

The words of Sir Charles Neville would ring 
in her ears, ‘‘ Be sure and apply to me when you 
require a friend.” She half wished she had real- - 
ly done so, but then came back the warning of 
that boy with the lovely face, of whom she was 


78 


ever thinking, whose image had displaced the 
flitting picture of that exquisite who had first 
won her girlish fancy. Then more vivid than all 
was the vision of the fair and saint-like face of 
Gabrielle, looking so spiritual, so good, so ten- 
der, so like those ideal conceptions of sweet mar- 
tyr-women, the cherished dreams of Art. She 
took this with her upon the journey to an un- 
known life, clinging to the memory of that face 
as to an influence for good, placing it sacred in 
her breast and upon her heart, as the maidens 
of French pastorals place memory of the Virgin, 
and feeling the stronger for this, there being a 
- sustaining power about the religion of a guiding, 
guardian angel. 

She had no fixed plan beyond the march to 
Farmer Percival’s in Hertfordshire; once there, 
she would feel safe, and might, if all went well, 
remain until new strength was gained; and then, 
with money earned and saved, she would pursue 
her search for that loving parent, whom once re- 
covered, she felt all her troubles would cease. 

It was a bold scheme, but the abandoned and 
the destitute have frequently implanted within 
them a desperate and courageous resolution for- 
eign to the natures of those better provided for. 

This was the motive of that long and toilsome 
pilgrimage. Even while money sufficient to de- 
fray the cost of the journey was in her posses- 
sion, she must expend for bare necessaries even 
more than she could willingly spare, but the res- 
idue should be placed aside for the purpose so 
.dear to her. ‘‘ But what if,” argued the shadowy 
genius ever at the elbow of the unfortunate to 
whisper a dread upon the most beloved of proj- 
ects—‘ what if he is not in the land? what if his 
home is occupied by others, who, after all this 
lapse of years, love and are loved as you would 
have been?” ‘Well, then,” she thought, “TI 
would crawl back to the old house at Sleperton, 
and would fall down before my mother’s portrait, 
and die.” 

The broad thoroughfare she walked along— 
the Marylebone Road—crowded by well-dressed 
and happy-looking people, bent upon their busi- 
ness or their pleasure, served to distract her at- 
tention, yet the contrast with her forlorn state 
was too significant to admit of long abstraction. 
In order that she might not miss her way or be 
compelled to ask at frequent intervals, Gabrielle 
had directed her by broad unmistakable lines of 
road; and along the first of these she was pur- 
suing her course, when, close by Gloucester Place, 
a crowd collected at the corner suddenly divided, 
« man dashed from the hold of a policeman and 
tore off, quickly followed by the rabble. Her 
first experience of a London crowd was a rough 
one, but she instinctively saved the little stock 
of coin from loss. Continuing her way, a great 
church filled her mind with other thoughts. Peo- 
ple were going in for evening prayer; the place 
looked so quiet and restful, so like a haven in 
the midst of tumultuous distraction, she was 
tempted to enter; and its lights and dim com- 
posing twilight had a soothing influence. Sitting 
very near to the door, and feeling sadly like a 
hypocrite in that boy’s disguise, the lonely waif 
listened to and caught up the shreds of prayer 
and praise, of singing and of music, as eagerly 
and devotedly as though some bright spirit rapt 
in the ecstasy of worship. ‘ Walter’s” life had 
not been a church-going life by any means; the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


yearning for higher things had been unable to 
expand itself; the undefined aspiration for some 
happier state, independent of her temporal con- 
dition, had been lost with those dreams which 
came and went, painting her weary life with the 
sole colors it received, and vanishing to leave it 
darker by the loss. Not for long might the child 
tarry; wide London was to be traversed before 
she could even commence the journey through 
the country. Fortunately Hertfordshire was at 
no great distance, nor was Farmer Percival’s at 
any distant part of Hertfordshire. How she 
longed for the quiet life, resolved to work with 
a zest that should surprise herself—although 
what at, she could not tell. How she would love 
the kind ones who were to befriend her in these 
dark unsheltered days—how try, by all her 
strength, to repay their sympathy and help! 

Lights were appearing in the streets when she 
left the church. The shops in the Euston Road 
gleamed with a more homely look. The outcasts 
welcome the gas-time ; they walk with more free- 
dom, and beneath grateful cover of that light can 
look their fellow-creatures in the face. Upon 
one side, as by contrast, and as though all life 
through there is a gray chill side to every thing, 
the statuary yards, crowded with colorless stone, 
sent a nameless depression to the bravely strug- | 
gling heart. 

By the time she reached Euston Square it was 
almost dark. Trees wore a shrouded, comfort- 
less look, and shrubs clustered together as though 
brooding in council. It was nothing; but she 
somehow thought of dull country ways at this 
hour, when the land would indeed look desolate. 
These hurrying citizens and merry chattering lit- 
tle ones, these lines of lights and rushing of ve- 
hicles, all took away that sense of loneliness nat- 
ural to one by one’s self at shadow-time. But 
these trees were dismal enough; and the child 
walked on more quickly to where the throng of | 
people was greater, and the vehicles more numer- 
ous. 

Slowly the walk up Pentonville was proceeded 
with; and because she was tired and faint, and 
could scarcely drag one step behind another, she, 
looking beyond to the summit of the higher 
ground, set the face that was to her saint-like 
and clear, at that point, and bore up bravely to 
it. More weak at every step, and thinking this 
a poor beginning, she tried to comfort and cheer 
herself by talking soothingly and with infinite 
compassion, as she had heard her talk; and so 
making her way onward, inch by inch, to that an- 
gle of big London where so many cross each oth- 
er’s destinies—thes“‘ Angel” corner at Islington. 
Here, with her wild half-gypsy fancy, she had 
made a niche for her guardian. Struggling on 
with a sublime light in the great eyes, born of no 
flickering city lamp, she grew more faint from 
fatigue, and looking for, as it were almost expect- 
ing, the tencer hand would clasp her own. So, 
on to the corner where the throng was greatest, 
looking wistfully in many faces, having placed 
her there. Then sight became dim and more 
dim, and she staggered back beside the glittering 
hostel, sinking to the pavement at the very mo- 
ment the one she had stationed there came breath- 
less to her side—raising the pretty face, colorless 
and wan, and murmuring, “‘ Thank God, in time!” 

An influence for which none need account be- 
yond the solicitude of her own kind heart had 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


prompted Gabrielle to try and overtake her pro- 
tégée. She could not, walking—and from deli- 
cate health, as she knew, walking slowly—have 
proceeded any great distance; and, thinking of 
_a point of interception, this seemed the most like- 
ly to prove successful. Begging, then, the com- 
pany of Cousin George, who left his books reluct- 
antly for what he feared would prove a wild-goose 
chase, she had taken a cab to this very place, and 
waited there a good half hour. Sore trial of pa- 
tience this to the author, but he improved the 
shining hour in gathering honey for his cells by 
taking mental notes of service for his work. 
And, as she felt would be the case, the sought- 
for had not passed, and was in piteous need of a 
sister hand. 

You know how soon the crowd collects, be it 
horse, or girl, or boy, or what not. And here 
good George came in with magnificent effect, and 
Gabrielle said she had never seen him do a better 
deed in better time. Scattering the starers, and 
lifting the child, he placed her in the cab, and 
then drove off, before the representative police- 
man had awakened to the knowledge that some- 
thing was amiss. In Gabrielle’s arms, head fall- 
en back, face lifted to the lights they quickly 
passed, unconscious still, but eminently happy, 
the child looked so beautiful that her friend could 
not help stooping to a loving kiss; then blush- 
ing, looked up, and caught George Percival’s 
thoughtful eyes bent upon her. 

“ Flowers and China,” said Gabrielle, smiling, 
and gently placing her charge in a more com- 
fortable position. Noticing that he wore a strange- 
ly absent manner, and an almost sad expression 
of countenance, she said, 

“You are lost in thought. I ought not to have 
taken you from the writing.” 

“Yes, I was thinking—thinking, Gabrielle, I 
would mhuch rather some other home could be 
found for this poor boy than with my father.” 

Gabrielle looked up surprised. 

“What! Still unreconciled to that ? I thought 
you had given an implied consent ?” 

“Since you had written and made all prepa- 
ration before I knew of your design—done, I ad- 
mit, with the best of motives—I saw no use in 
prolonging the matter, and upsetting all your 
plans; but my annoyance was most sincere.” 

“*T should like to know the motive of this strong 
objection. It can not be that uncle and aunt 
will be put out in that large house, or that they 
will fail in kindest treatment, for no kinder ones 
exist. What is it, then ?” 

He pressed her hand with gratitude at the com- 
pliment to his beloved parents, but lapsed into 
silence when she taxed him with that question. 

“Well, I have reasons, weighty reasons, Gabri- 
elle ; and some day I will tell you them, but for 
the present no matter; let things rest, and if he 
goes, he goes.” 

Gabrielle pondered upon it much: usually so 
clear and open, he seemed keeping something 


from her—she was careful to think seemed, be- 


cause on no account would she have injured him 
even in thought. Her love was too sacred a sen- 
timent for that: the love which exalts its object 
above all reproach, or the love would not exist. 

“Does he seem strong enough to learn farm- 
ing?” asked George. ‘More girl than boy, he 
_ looks as though the hard life on the land would 
shatter him to pieces.” 


79 


“Well, the fact is, George, we know nothing 
about farming. Your father has promised to find 
him occupation ; he does not mention what.” 

“How much better it would have been to have 
found him employment in London! If you had 
asked me, I would have made room for him as 
messenger at the bank.” 

“Do you not remember, George, I told you of 
his apprehensions lest some of those circus peo- 
ple should find him and compel his return to the 
business? He lives in mortal terror of this, for 
he suffered so much at it.” 

“Your protection of the child is romantic. 
What might I not have made of your just now 
kissing this handsome youth, were I so disposed, 
or adopted the school of writing which claims this 
sort of thing for its chief academy? Poor little 
fellow, I am sorry for the long walk before him, 
although I can not recommend railway travelling 
alone while he is so weak.” 

Proceeding by way of the Upper Street as far as 
Highbury, the cab there turned suddenly upon 
the right hand. They were relieving her of the 
long preliminary to her journey. And when 
“Walter” came to herself it was to find Gabri- 
elle sewing at her bedside, and Mr. Percival read- 
ing in a low tone from the evening paper, the 
scene being elocated in the comfortable guest- 
chamber of the last hotel of any importance upon 
the road to St. Alban’s. 

“There, there,” said Gabrielle, gently, “he is 
coming round nicely, and by to-morrow morning 
will be in better order for walking. We will in- 
struct the landlady to have some fresh-laid eggs, 
new milk, and sweet home-made bread in readi- 
ness for his breakfast, so that he will not have 
to wait.” 

She knew the child was listening to every 
word, but said it thus not to trouble “ Walter” 
to talk. Lying there so patient and delicate- 
looking, with additional fairness from the sur- 
rounding of white dimity, Gabrielle felt almost 
unable to leave the child, but she must either do 
so, or inform George of the truth. As it was, 
she could see that her cousin from some reason 
or other appeared slightly agitated—she could 
tell, as love tells, by small signs; notably by the 
nervous grasp of the paper, and that tremulous 
cadence at all times an indication of emotion ; 
and, like sensitive and tender-hearted women gen- 
erally, she took this reproachfully to herself. 

Silently ‘‘ Walter” pressed her hand, given with 
so much innocent sympathy; pressed it to lips 
and bosom, seeming to cling thereto as for very 
life; looking up in her face with eyes overrun- 
ning with tears. It was an idyl of touching at- 
fection, none the less deep for being so quiet; 
and all this while Cousin George, not to lose time, 
was assiduously reading the review of a recent 
novel, wherein hearts were tossed hither and 
thither in a manner the critic styled “ unnatural- 
ly exaggerated,” and which George, with his 
calmly viewing insight, pronounced overdrawn 
also. These men and critics, how they ignore the 
battledoor and shuttlecock of life, planted upon 
their impassible pedestals; until some day their 
own turn comes for play, and they prove just as 
overdrawn themselves. 

He was still reading the review when Gabrielle, 
having taken a locket and fine chain from her 
neck, removed from it a miniature of George, 
leaving the other picture—an exquisitely correct 


80 


likeness of herself; she clasped this about the 
child’s neck, then stooping to a sweet farewell 
kiss, rose to go. ‘‘ Walter” turned her face away, 
and never moved while the two went quietly from 
the apartment, George believing the child was 
sleeping. Down stairs, Gabrielle made the pro- 
posed arrangements for the morrow, and paid the 
woman, who was an honest, homely soul, with 
motherly feelings; and Gabrielle with quick in- 
stinct knew that the child would be well cared 
for. 

It was a clear starlight night, there was a con- 
siderable distance to walk before any conveyance 
by road or rail could be secured, but Gabrielle 
was not sorry, for starlight walks with George 
were very few and far between, and for the most 
part confined to the holidays. Each autumn 
they had spent the three weeks the manager was 
allotted for his annual rest, in Hertfordshire, and 
these were the only quiet delicious bits of green 
in her life; but this year, owing to the temporary 
indisposition of her mother, poor Gabrielle had 
been unable to accompany her companion of so 
many seasons. She never told a soul how bitter 
the disappointment was, but applied herself with 
redoubled energy to the nursing of the sick, not 
caring afterward to go down alone, but looking 
forward to the year to come. Self,denial was so 
fine a constituent of her nature, and duty so 
beautiful a shading to the whole principle of her 
life, that even greater sacrifice than this would 
have been performed without a murmur. Few 
knew—and, as usual, those of the household least 
of all—the subtle goodness elevating this charac- 
ter. The poor, the unfortunate, the sorrowing, 
who never came to her house, and whom she dis- 
covered through the channel of no church, these 
blessed the woman with the angel face, as they 
described her, sometimes knowing no name by 
which to call her, nor any means on earth where- 
by to trace her. Silently she went into the 
wretched homes, as silently departed, yet ever do- 
ing a good work in the short time there; making 
up the quarrels poverty is so apt to engender, 
leading man and woman to think more kindly of 
each other, quieting noisy children, and making 
the sick-room pleasant as a bed of roses; placing 
food in foodless cupboards, and shoes on shoeless 
feet, sitting down to needle-work while talking, 
and with her own hand making tea; yet no im- 
possible creation, no heroine of a bloodless ideal, 
but a sensible, practical girl, too old to command 
interest doubtless, but a thoroughly worthy char- 
acter for all that; as are many we pass over for 
the younger, more showy, and more fashionably 
dressed; and withal one who, if born to love, 
was born to suffer. 

George was walking silently along looking up 
at the stars. They met few people, and these, 
companions like themselves; engaged all day 
probably at the marts of commerce, and taking 
these quiet walks as most in accord with their 
ideas of contrast with the busy turmoil of the day, 
possibly as reminding them of earlier times before 
the youth and poetry had been ground out of them 
by stern necessity. 

“What are you thinking of? This book seems 
to absorb more consideration than any preceding 
work.” 

“T wish it to be my masterpiece. 
will.” 

“You are, naturally, stronger by every success. 


I think it 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


Few have done morein so short a time. The story 
concluded with the midsummer part of the mag- 
azine was decidedly your best work yet.” 

“Do you think so? Re-reading it in print, it 
Seems very poor.” 

“ But why ?” 

“T can not tell; I only know it fails to satisfy 
me; perhaps because uninspired.” 

‘“‘ And the work you are engaged upon—” 

“Ts certainly more so. Or” (correcting him- 
self) ‘‘realizes more closely my ideal of the beau- 
tiful.” 

“Tf you are as precise in your judgment of 
George Percival’s work as of other men’s, it must 
realize a very high standard indeed to be truly 
artistic.” 

“There is a deeper aspiration than that, which 
is, to arrive at the truly natural.” 

“And you are doing this ?” 

“Yes, I am doing this; and how happily rare it 
is for the truly natural to be attended by unnat- 
ural pain !”’ 

“Whatever do you mean ?—That a work so per- 
fectly realizing your conceptions gives you pain to 
write ?” 

“I fear it may cause pain in reading.” - 

“You were ever sensitive about your books. I 
should not like to be a writer, they seem to suf- 
fer so.” 

“ And have equal capacity for enjoyment, aris- 
ing from their finer sensibility, this being held in 
control by stern common-sense. Once let a writer 
give way to weakness, and he is the worst of all 
poor fools, and suffers most.” 

“‘T never heard it put more plainly.” 

‘““We are so used to glossing over error, and its 
consequence, pain !”” 

“You admit, then, the writer is as human as 
the rest of us 2” 

“T admit the writer to be ten times as human 
as any of you: by very necessity, and by inexo- 
rablelawsofnature. Else,” asked he thoughtfully 
of himself, ‘‘ how should we be the weaklings we 
often are?” He was evidently thinking of some- 
thing foreign to their conversation. Gabrielle 
walked on musingly; then asked, to turn the cur- 
rent of his thoughts: 

“Tt would be worth knowing your exclusive 
opinion upon the true art of writing.” 

“That is soon defined. It should possess 
strong originality, vivacity, refinement of diction, 
and sensitive perception of character: the writer 
should be careful, never hasty, always natural, 
and should digest his subject ten years before im- 
parting his views. He should avoid florid language 
and extravagance: say much in a few words as 
explicitly yet eloquently as possible, and bearing 
in mind the mixed company that goes to make up 
a public audience. He should avoid both man- 
nerism and imitation, a bad style of one’s own 
being better than a good style copied—imitation, 
after all, reduced to its level, being little above 
plagiarism. His descriptive passages should be 
easy, without straining after undue effect, and 
without losing the opportunity of improving a sit- 
uation by detail. His characters should be dis- 
tinct and well studied, and the ten years’ system 
will also work advantageously in this. Not a 
character in my new book but has been in my 
mind’s eye preparing for translation for at least 
that term. Each character should be a type; 
pleasing or repulsive, always a type; not crowded 


vr 


+ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


upon the canvas if there is no room ¢r need for 
it, but should be drawn with the utmost care, 
painted in with power, and shaded off with deli- 
cacy. The roughest of characters have their del- 
icate shading, did we but look at them in the 
right light.” 

‘“‘ And many a delicate character has its rough 
shading, I think.” 

“You are still with the unfortunate boy at the 
inn.” 

“T confess he came to mind with your words. 
But go on.” 

“T have almost given my views. I especially 
dislike veneering of morality and religion, and I 
believe the sensible reader holds all such tricks 
in proper contempt: in another sense, it is the 
custom with some writers to make free use of 
the Almighty’s name, profanity which shocks and 
displeases all thoughtful persons. Politics should 
be abstained from, political sentiments being apt 
to give offense: personality also should never be 
indulged in, it being one of the most vulgar, even 
though the most classical, of all the tempers of 
authorship. Some writers display as much mock- 
modesty as others do profligacy, and both are 
alike detestable! I am calling none of these to 
account, dear Gabrielle—merely giving you a few 
of my ideas upon the art and accomplishment of 
writing. No grander symmetry of conception, 
taking ethical perfection to be based upon lan- 
guage, can exist than falls to the kingdom of the 
creator of fiction. The tender instincts which 
cause these records to gleam amidst dead ranks 
of literature, and to stand imperial in the whole 
history of letters, are that men’s hearts beat re- 
sponsively, and that therein the mirror is held up 
to nature—”’ 

‘Not always.” 

“Thanks for the correction; no, not always, as 
my friend the reviewer pointed out in that capital 
article I read to you: you thought that a good 
notice, Gabrielle? Rather hard hitting, but di- 
rected for the writer’s good, and, taken altogether, 
an excellent cratique /” 

“T am ashamed to say 1 did not follow it as 
closely as I should have done.” And she was 
ashamed to say his own opinions were much more 
interesting to her. 

“The truth is, musie and effect aid and support 
the religion of authorship, much as they aid and 
support other religions; the faith would die un- 

less fed by the luxury of spectacle, of sound— 
half melodious, half lyrical, and perfume the sen- 
Suous message of the Unseen to the soul. In 
this I note the significant absence of comfort and 
solace, the bulwarks of the lasting, and a mys- 
ticism of unsatisfied and sensitive melancholy that 
appears to be supreme. I hold that the great 
end of writing is not thus reached. A page de- 
signed for broad-cast diffusion should do more 
than air the penchant or the taste of one. A 
book may be a magnificent myth—a pleasing, de- 
lusive fable strung with even more than Orien- 
tal elegance; but it practically fails as a work 
of true art, should no end be gained, and no pur- 
pose be held in view, from the first word to the 
last.” 

** And does my philosopher’s new work fulfill 
this precise condition ?—I, more mortal, ignorant- 
ly imagining the end of all fiction was gained by 
the amusement it afforded.” 

“Yes,” said George Percival, with a shade of 

F 


81 


sadness underlying the tone of his reply, “it ful- 
fills this condition.” , 

‘TJ am eager to read your new study—a study, 
I suppose, from the life?” 

“From the life, Gabrielle.” 

‘One or more of those imposing Directors of 
the London and Olympian ?” 

‘“No, Gabrielle, they are safe for this time at 
least.” 

‘‘ More interesting personages, doubtless ?” 

‘‘ More interesting to you and me, for they are 
—ourselves !” 

They were interrupted by the approach of sev- 
eral caravans belonging to some travelling show, 
proceeding at a slow pace, and causing Gabrielle 
to ask him the meaning. 

“Ts there a fair?” 

“Not that I know of; it looks more like the 
advance carriages of some circus.” 

She agreed with him. There was an unmis- 
takable look about such vehicles even from the 
distance. As they came nearer, the surmise was 
found correct ; evidently they contained the para- 
phernalia which could best be spared from the 
camping of some equestrian establishment. At 
the front of each carriage a lantern was hanging, 
swinging above the head of a sleepy driver, its 
glimmer shining fitfully upon the dreary-looking 
gilt embellishments of these vans. Upon the 
sides the effect was more weird. Visible only 
by the starlight, they presented, where not wrap- 
pered over, a strange array of flying steeds, dimly 
defined dragons, and other monsters native to the 
renowned legends of equestrian drama. Upon 
front and sides various characters of large and 
attractive form announced the design and con- 
nection of this train of carriages; the notice thus 
acquainting the public that it was— 


RINGDOM AND TANNER’S 


GREAT UNITED CIRQUE AND HIPPODROME, 
AND 
COLOSSAL AMPHITHEATRE OF VARIETIES. 


A 


One by one the heavy, toiling wagons passed 
them upon their way; at the windows of the 
“living vans” a glimpse was obtained of the 
inmates, women and children; and the sight of 
a girl leaning her arms upon the ledge, looking 
forth watching the country, gave Gabrielle a thrill, 
for she thought of ‘ Walter.” Was the child 
safe? These people would pass the very house 
—might, nay, very likely would, enter for refresh- 
ment—and, for all she knew, this was the com- 
pany from which she had escaped ; and that night, 
or early upon the morrow, the remaining members 
of the troupe and additional caravans would be 
upon the same road, so that nothing would be 
gained even if she returned; besides, she could 
not so far trespass upon the good nature of her 
companion, who, although a cousin, was also a 
bank manager and an author, a combination which 
she contemplated with considerable awe. 

They stood upon a bridge over the river Lea, 
watching the lights beyond the meadows—stood 
hand in hand, as she had thought long ere this to 
stand with him, and that forever; side by side, 
no other soul being by, and there was no sound 
save the little ripple of the water where it inter- 
laced the reeds. It was such an opportunity for 
him to tell her that he loved her, all was so favor- 
able, and it would have moved her with joy to 


82 


hear the words so long waited for. He was look- 
ing down in the water, surely he was thinking 
what to say; his hand was trembling—yes, he 
was about to speak at last. 

“Look, Gabrielle, there’s a rat after that tad- 
pole!” 

She said, quietly, not pettishly, “Poor little 
thing!” And she meant it; she was no more 
of the order of girl who shows impatience at a 
disappointment than was he of the order of man 
who snatches at every or any opportunity to tell 
any or every girl how much he loves her. A very 
prosaic couple indeed. 

They went on again after that, beautifully calm 
and refreshed: the dew was falling, so it could 
not be otherwise. 

But that night Gabrielle was awake long after 
he, tired with writing and full of thought, trod 
softly past her door. 

‘“‘T shall be glad when he completes this new 
story; my darling has not been the same since 
he commenced it after returning from his holi- 
day.” 

She could call him her darling there if nowhere 
else; might call him thus until somebody else’s 
darling. But at that—pleased with a passing 
thought of his soon being the public’s darling, 
soon being famed and wealthy—she fell to sleep, 
and dreaming, revisited that river-side, fancied 
herself upon the bridge, and was looking over, 
when, with a startled cry, she awoke. Then, 
when awake, the picture grew more real than 
the instant’s glance which caused the ery had 
been; and she fancied she had beheld the figure 
of her cousin, stooping over the lovely form of a 
little girl he seemed to have in some way rescued, 
and the child was gazing up in his face with the 
most winning look she had ever seen. 

“Oh dear!” quoth Gabrielle, “this comes of 
my escapade. I could scarcely expect to. do so 
much, and go so far, and dream none of it; but 
what a mixed affair my dream has made of it! 
Poor little one, I hope you are quietly sleeping 
now, and I hope you will find dear Aunt and 
Uncle Percival both well.” 

And how fidgety and sad a dream makes some 
people! 

——— 


CHAPTER XXV. 
AFTER NIGHT COMES DAWN. 


Har asleep and half awake, “ Walter” was 
suddenly aroused by a sound which set her quak- 
ing. There was no doubt of the meaning of that 
rumbling noise, becoming every minute more dis- 
tinct. She had passed too sad and lengthy an 
apprenticeship to the night marches of these car- 
avans not to recognize the warning echo; and 
the child trembled with horror, for what might 
not their coming portend ? 

In the extremity of her fear, she scarcely dared 
breathe, and with each heart-beat the line of wag- 
ons seemed a step nearer. She knew the habits 
of the fraternity too well to suppose they would 
go past without stopping, with no other hostelry, 
perhaps, for miles. No artillery was ever more 
dreaded by doomed villagers. It seemed prolong- 
ed to indefinite torture, because the progress was 
so slow. Her brow was damp with fear, every 
remaining atom of strength fled from her limbs, 
and she felt helpless as some infant. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Still nearer came the advancing train; it was 
almost at the house; the foremost carriage slack- 
ened speed ; there was a general stoppage. She 
could contain herself in such horrible suspense 
no longer, but glided from her bed to the window, 
and there, by the light of the lamp below the sign, 
read, with blanched face, the names of her old 
masters. - 

For the instant a deadly sickness overcame her, 
then the necessity or supposed necessity for im- 
mediate action. To lie there when each minute 
was one of peril, to lie there when, if these pass- 
ed by, more searching danger would menace her 
with approach of the principals, was out of the 
question, a sheer impossibility ! 

She had been placed upon the bed without the 
removal of so much as her jacket, and now, snatch- 
ing up her cap, she stole down the old-fashioned 
stairs, and was out in the back court-yard before 
the half-sleepy driver of the team had descended 
from the first of the circus wagons. Not many 
such customers came that way, but all the men 
and all the maids must be in front; hence our 
boy-girl got clear off unseen by any other than a 
line of moles nailed to the barn door-post. 

It seemed dreadfully cold turning out thus from 
the cozy shelter of that pleasant chamber, and 
she shivered and trembled first with fear, and next 
from the cold, until it became doubtful if a more 
miserable little mortal was abroad that night. 

The wide gloomy country on either side looked 
so cheerless, so peopled by shadows, she scarce- 
ly dared to glance to right or left. Her teeth 
chattered as she recalled her feelings by Euston 
Square, by those trees that wore the shrouded and 
comfortless look, and those shrubs clustered to- 
gether as though brooding in council. 

The farther she proceeded upon the road the 
more dismal it became, with great black woods, 
and hideous lines of darkness. She could not go 
back, because to return would be as horrible as to 
press on; more so, knowing its waste of gloom; 
whereas she might come upon some farm or cot-. 
tage by keeping on. It was an alternative chill- 
ing and uncertain, and her heart sank when she 
remembered how early the folks went to bed in 
these quiet places; but she kept on, and held 
both hands clasped firm upon her bosom, where 
Gabrielle’s locket was warm as a thought of th 
absent one. ; 

Every now and then she stood still and listen- 
ed, trying to detect if the wagons were continu- 
ing upon their way. Nothing could be heard but 
the buzzing of hedge-side insects, croaking of 
frogs in ebony pools, or distant baying of some 
hound. She passed a farm with outlying build- 
ings, and a range of stacks rising pale and weird 
of form by the road-side. Close down by one of 
these, with their backs to the hay for warmth, 
huddled two poor souls more wretched than her- 
self, asleep after a long day’s tramping. She 
sped on, nor glanced to see if some open barn of- 
fered shelter until the morning. All the lights 
were out at the house, and the darkness before 
and beyond was but a change of deadness. 

She came to a hill. Upon the summit was a 
stone, and, taking it for a mile-stone, she knelt 
down to decipher, if possible, the distance to the 
next town; but she read thereon, with a shudder : 
“‘ Here Miller Coates, of Enfield, was murdered on 
the night of September the 3rd, 1803.” / 

Down the slope of that hill she ran, never dar- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ing to cast a look either way, and breathing a si- 
Jent prayer for safety. Beyond this was a village 
street, with some few houses removed and sta- 
tioned among trees gaunt and dusky; no lights, 
no shelter. To the rear a small, square-towered 
church, draped with ivy, looked in mourning for 
the dead that lay around; a great wooden door 
closed even the porch of this, and ‘‘ Walter” walk- 
ed on with a still heavier heart. 

_ Her strength was spent, and now it was a mat- 
ter of great difficulty dragging her feet along from 
field to field. To fall there at the roadside would 
be to risk discovery by those she feared, coming 
that way sooner or later. She would crawl down 
one of the dreary misty meadows, and hide in some 
dry ditch. With this intention she opened a gate, 
the gate to a narrow lane, high-banked, and so 
overgrown with foliage it was dark as night; 
every glimpse of the starry sky was lost, and it 
was with cautious outfeeling slowness she made 
the progress she did. 

It seemed to get darker at every step, when all 
in a moment she was dazzled by a bright illumined 
scene, which, revealed so suddenly, seemed like 
-enchantment. It was the dijou sitting-room of a 
charming cottage to which the lane was an ap- 
proach: an apartment with open glass door and 
a perfect bower of flowers ; a candelabrum of wax 
lights at the side caused all the brightness which 
at first so overcame the night-bound. Even from 
the outside it could be seen that this cottage was 
furnished in a rich and tasteful manner, and with 
a French lightness doubly captivating when con- 
trasted with the long dark way preceding this 
glimpse of fairy-land. The occupant of the room 
heard the footstep, light as it was, and, rising 
from a couch, laid down the book he had been 
reading, and stepped out upon the gravel-path of 
his garden. He was a rather handsome man, of 
pale complexion, and coal black hair, partly curl- 
ing, and pushed carelessly back from the temples. 
He wore a negligent tunic of black velvet, and 
was smoking a cigar of great fragrance. He gazed 
with surprise at the slender child before him, and 
with a gentle movement pushed her more into 
the light. ; 

“Who are you?” he asked, at once deciding it 
was no village urchin after the peaches. 

“My name is ‘ Walter Gordon; I have lost my 
way. I will thank you so much for permission to 
rest till morning in your kitchen.” 

The gentleman—an artist of eminence accus- 
tomed to strange models, and with a quick eye for 
the beautiful, stood looking at this wild and be- 
wildered yet lovely vagrant, hesitating what to do; 
then he led her in, and said, 

“Well, my young friend, I see no particular 
reason why you should not stay, although I do 
not keep open house in the general way; quite 
the reverse; but sit down and give me your ref- 
erences.” 

With which pleasant words and pleasant man- 
ner, accompanied with a smile of re-assurance, he 
resumed his position, and proceeded with the en- 
joyment of the cigar. 

“JT did not expect a visitor to-night, I give you 
my word, young Sir; but I am none the less 
pleased at being able to provide you with shelter, 
for, excuse me, you look any thing but adapted 
to journeying at this hour. My servants go to 
bed early, but I will, by your leave, open an ac- 
count between yourself and my larder.” 


83 


“T thank you, Sir; I shall feel glad of a little 
refreshment to take off the faintness and fatigue 
from which I am suffering.” 

‘Come along, then, and when you have recover- 
ed yourself you will tell me how you came in this 
plight. Running away from home, I suppose ? 
Ran away from home myself when about your 
age; but I can see now what a young rascal I 
was; not to say you are a young rascal, until I 
know more of the circumstances. But carry that 
liqueur of brandy and the candle, please, and we 
will see if some more becoming tinting may not 
be restored to those cheeks.” 

Saying this, he good-humoredly led the way to 
the housekeeper’s room, opening from which was 
the pantry, containing a variety of tempting 
viands, and from these he permitted his visitor 
to make her choice. 

He admired this wanderer, who had appeared as 
though born of the book he was reading; and 
he conceived the project of inducing him to re- 
main a while, and conveying the expressive face 
and picturesque little form to his canvas. He 
was an artist of rare and delicate skill, whose 
paintings obtained hanging of honor at the Acad- 
emy, and whose work was in great request in gal- 
lery and drawing-room. 

Having fared modestly, and “ retinted,” at re- 
quest of her new friend, to the extent of tasting 
the brandy and water her host had provided, 
“ Walter” returned with him to the small apart- 
ment by which she had entered. 

“You are cold,” said the artist, thoughtfully, 
closing the window and fastening the shutter; 
and then the child did indeed feel more at home. 

“And now tell meall about it;” and he arranged 
himself gracefully upon the couch, having first 
motioned his visitor into a luxurious arm-chair; 
“T am all attention.” 

“You have been so kind to me, Sir, I wish there 
was something to tell that would enlist your sym- 
pathy for me; but there is very little, and in that 
I am seen by a bad light, unfortunately.” 

“Leave the lights to me, my child; I am ac- 
customed to bad lights. Is it home or school ?” 

“ Home I have none, nor have I ever had. My 
schooling days have long been over. It is from 
a cruel apprenticeship I am escaping, and am on 
the way to kind strangers I have never seen, who 
are about to find me employment of some sort.” 

‘“‘T am sorry for you, because I believe you have 
no right to be in this position.” 

“No, indeed! My father was a gentleman; 
but where he is, or if living even, is more than I 
can tell, Ionly know Iam unutterably wretched!” 

“Oh! come,come! I dare say I can alter this; 
or, at all events, I will try. You shall stay and 
assist me in my studio for a time, and learn some- 
thing of painting—see yourself, if you like, in one 
or other of my pictures. I want some such face 
as yours for a goat-boy of the Tyrol, and a gon- 
dolier’s son of Maggiore. You can pose to a pic- 
turesque attitude, I can see, and I shall be the 
indebted ; so make yourself happy and contented. 
Stay as long as agreeable to you, and go when 
tired of the seclusion of an artist’s woodland 
home. And now for bed; you are tired, my cigar 
is out, and we are early risers.” 

He held forth his hand with winning, welcoming 
hospitality, and ‘“‘ Walter” took it, her eyes filled 
with tears, her sensitive heart more full of grati- 
tude than words can tell. It was so complete a 


84 


change in that short time she could scarcely realize 
it; she wondered if there was something she knew 
not of that attracted others to her in spite of her 
misfortunes? She might have been told it was 
the sad beauty of the large, speaking eyes, the 
aristocratic contour of form and feature, the trem- 
ulous refinement of voice, and the nameless charm 
never by any chance absent from her manner; 
and it was all this that had made her so valuable 
to the circus, and so great a loss. 

Later, in the tiny room opening from the larger 
chamber of the host, “ Walter,” lying awake, 
heard the rumbling of heavy wagons on the road 
above the lane—heard, and without fear—and 
rested with a delicious sense of safety, slept with 
a blissful peace unknown before, and dreamed, 
with hues of exquisite phantasy, a poem of the 
artist, of Gabrielle, of Lorry Vincent; and never 
awoke till morning. 

She had scarcely dressed herself when her host, 
who was no other than Lord Ellerby, and who 
made this country house a studio for the exercise 
of his artistic fancies, came.in to greet her. 


—— 


- 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE. 


WuHen St. Aubyn came calmly to consider the 
consequences of his charitable action, he blamed 
himself for undue haste and excess of philanthro- 
py. Yet what human being could or would have 
denied shelter, under such terrible circumstances, 
to any one? Had it not been for the assistance 
thus rendered, this venturesome yachtsman must 
have perished i in the storm. 

“T have only acted as any man with a grain of 
commiseration and pity would have done; and if, 
by mischance, Lena and he should meet, I must 
trust to her kind and grateful heart to keep me 
in mind, and to at once retire.” 

He knew nothing then of the morning’s meet- 
ing, when Willie had surprised her at the harp, 
and she had said to him, 

“T did not know, while watching you from the 
cliff, and wishing I could let myself down to you, 
that it was the Willie ’ve been so longing to see.” 

“No; or else you would really have done so ?” 
and he took her hand, gazing in her eyes, and 
saying, as eloquently as could be, ‘‘ How beautiful 
you are, and how much I admire you!” 

“Well, I think I should. I am rather fond of 
birds’-nesting, and I wouldn’t have made any 
trouble about it.” 

Mr. Arden laughed. It was a boyish, honest, 
enjoyable laugh; and Lena, who had heard little 
enough of this sort of music, looked innocently 
into his face, and said, 

“Oh! I wish you would laugh once more, it’s 
delightful! And how good-looking you are, to be 
sure! Do you know, you remind me of the noble 
Greeks in one of papa’s books—Homer. I sup- 
pose you know Homer ?” 

“Tm sorry to say I do,” replied William Arden, 
with a wry face, “‘a little too intimately.” 

“Well, now sit down. I want you to talk to 
me, and tell me something I wish to know; I can 
not ask that tedious Mrs. Brandon, because she 
launches out into such a lecture upon love and 
nonsense of that sort, and I’ve resolved never to 
have any thing to do with it.” 


A MODERN MINISTER: 


Mr. Arden’s hair began to stand on end. He 
had never heard a young lady talk like this one; 
it was naiveté with a vengeance. Yet she was so 
bewitchingly pretty, he was over head and ears 
in love with her already. 

She made him sit down beside her, watching 
anxiously for the smiles she so loved to see, and 
which were like letters of some new and delight- 
ful language. 

“Tell me,”’ she said, “is the world so very large, 
beyond the ‘boarding of our garden ?” 

“ Rather!” he replied, with a merry twinkle. 

“‘'You’ve been round it in your yacht ?” 

“ Not all round it.” 

‘“‘T want to know why, in all the poems I have 
read, the men make such commotion about the 
maids. Why is it? Now can you tell me? [ 
can not get papa or Mrs. Brandon to explain to 
me half I want to know.” 

“May I ask if you are alluding to ae Homer ?” 

“Don’t say ‘may I ask,’ but ask outright; and 
you may call me ‘dear’ if you like; it’s short and 
pretty, and I shall be pleased with it from your 
lips. Mrs. Brandon says ‘dear’ as though she 
meant griffin, or some other cold-blooded animal. 
You have yet to make that lady’s acquaintance, 
and you'll not forget it. But now tell me the al- 
legory of men and maids.” 

“Goodness knows! Idon’t. You'd better ask 
my father; he has lived longer in this wicked 
world!’ And with mock gravity Mr, Arden seri- 
ously looked the fair girl in the face, for as yet 
he could hardly believe his senses, and feared she 
might turn out bold and forward after all. 

“Tf this is all genuine,” he said to himself, “‘ she 
is the most exquisite little girl I have ever been 
acquainted with, and I shall think it a burning 
shame if she does not see the world beyond the 
boarding of their garden, and under my able and 
chivalrous tutorship. We are old friends by this, 
and need be under very little poncmeny 788 for 
ceremony, she won’t let one !”’ 

“But tell me,” she persisted, “ why do all the 
men, in all the poems and all the pictures, seem 
to think of nothing but pursuing and capturing 
those like myself?” ~ 

He was completely posed by this out-Heroding 
of simplicity, but explained the best way he could: 

“You see, dear, when the flood was setting 
things to rights, the animals all consorted two and 
two for company, and the sociableness and sym- 


‘pathy thus provoked has continued as a lasting 


memento of what ought to be. If you were to 
go into that strange and crowded world of which 
you have spoken, you would there see the same 
linked companionship.” 

“How very strange! 
they ever broken ?”’ 

“Very often, I’m sorry to say!” answered Men- 
tor, with a half grave, half comical expression of 
countenance. 

“ Ah, that’s a pity! 
another at will?” 

“Well, not exactly; a little understanding is 
necessary, not to mention propriety.” 

‘‘ Because I was going to say, I should like to 
link with you!” 

Mr. Arden could really stand no more ; he could 
tolerate as much as most young yachtsmen, but 
this was going a step too far; and adjusting his 
collar with dignity, while assuming the aspect of 
true British decorum, he said, 


And these links—are 


And: can one link with 


A MODERN 


“My dear young lady, knowing you have never 
been to boarding-school, I make allowance for 
your ignorance; but do let me beg of you to re- 
form your style of conversation ; because if you 
ever should get abroad, and indulge in this sort 
of talk with every body you meet, I don’t know 
what will become of you.” 

She was easily wounded, and began to cry, 
chiefly because she feared she had offended him. 

“T can’t help it; I know nothing; I never see 
any body; I want some one to talk to of my own 
age, some one, as you say is proper, with whom 
to link myself—” 

“Yes, but I am not of your own age; I am 
ever so much older than you.” 

She stood beside him, placed a hand in his, and 
said, firmly, ‘‘ I do so want to see this great world 
and its people. Will you takeme? Iam never 
likely to if you will not. Promise me, when you 
are well enough, and go away from here, that I 
shall accompany you. Promise me!” 

It was the one thing of all others he would have 
liked; but this very candor so effectually dis- 
armed him, he could but think of the man whose 
happiness was bound up in this child. 

“But your father, my dear Miss St. Aubyn; 
think! I am sure he would not consent, and to. 
do this opposed to his wishes would be to act 
treacherously. Do you know you remind me 
awfully of Eve, with your innocence, and guile- 
lessness, and desire for knowledge? Now let me 
tell you, when Eve had that desire gratified, there 
was no more innocence and no more happi- 
ness.” 

“ But you will forgive my saying, Mr. Willie, 
that I know just as much as you do about those 
Scripture stories ; and neither you nor I have any 
right to say there was no more innocence and no 
more happiness. I could know all I want to know 
and preserve both, and link myself into the bar- 
gain.” 

“ You are incorrigible!” 

“J think I am, and the best thing you can do 
is to try and make me better.” 

“T shouldn’t have taken all the trouble I have 
to come and see you, had I suspected you to be 
the troublesome young lady you are,” he said, 
rising. 

She laughed merrily, placing her hands upon 
his mouth, and they were good friends enough. 
It was quite a brotherly and sisterly friendship, 
and, with William Arden’s sense of prudence and 
of right, seemed perfectly safe, even though he 
had lingered so long in those waters for the pur- 
pose of her expressed wish, and even though he 
now felt that he couid love her with the gold and 
not the dross of love. ; 

He shook the proffered hand, and giving it a 
little squeeze, said, 

‘“‘Good-by for the present; I must return to 
my room, or I shall have nurse back, rating me 
soundly for disobeying her orders.” 

Soon afterward Mrs. Brandon came in, finding 
the girl sitting melancholy beside her harp. 

“What is the matter—another string broken ?” 

“Oh yes, another string broken.” 

“Tell its Brandon all about it, there’s a dearie!” 

“You’re not my Brandon, and, if I had my will, 
would be somebody else’s instead of papa’s.” 

The quiet lady very demurely removed a speck 
of dust from her white cuff, and permitted it to 
border the hand reposing between the folds of 


MINISTER. 85 


her black silk dress, looking the embodiment of 
respectable, if aggrieved, gentility. 

‘‘ My young lady is outrageously uncompliment- 
ary; but there’s one thing, it’s said before my face.” 

‘And isn’t half so bad as the things I should 
say behind your back, only I’ve nobody to say 
them to except dear old Martha Saxe. I always 
spend all my time with her in picking you to 
pieces.” 

Mrs. Brandon shrugged her shoulders with a 
gesture of mild contempt. 

“T should like to know what has put you out 
to-day.” 

“Well, then, know and tremble: I have seen 
him, and he isn’t half so nice as I expected. You 
said he would kiss me, but he didn’t.” 

“Of course not at first; they never do; it’s 
hand-shaking, to begin with, and one thing leads 
to another.” 

“It’s too slow for me: all at once, and then 
something else, is my motto. And I asked him 
to take me to see the world, and he refused to 
do that.” 

“Of course he would—getting himself into a 
mess through a child like you. Why, it’s pun- 
ishable by law. You must not lay him open to 
any such contingency, but watch his departure, 
and go after him. That, you see, saves him from 
the compromising nature of the proceeding.” 

“What’s that ?” 

“T can not explain now: I really think some- 
times, child, you plead ignorance for the purpose.” 

“Of course I do, to be enlightened; you might 
have seen an instance of that just now.” 

“T heard it; I was in the breakfast parlor, 
with the door open. You rather overstepped the 
bounds of youthful modesty; young men think 
so much of that. I trembled for you as though 
you had been my own.” 

“You are an old hypocrite! Where’s papa ?” 

“In the study, you playful child. Oh, what 
pleasure there must be in the enjoyment of such 
excellent spirits! Mark my sedateness; that is 
affliction, dear; the rough usage of the world.” 

“Well, if the world takes upon every one the 
effect it has upon you, I think I had better keep 
out of it.’ And with this parting shot Lena 
ran off to St. Aubyn, leaving the duenna looking 
particularly sour. 

He was paler than usual, and the hand trem- 
bled while twining the soft curls about her head. 
The reverent, loving touch told all the wondrous 


passion which had been the blessing, yet might 


prove the bane, of that bruised life. 

“Please, papa, I’ve come to tell you I’ve seen 
Willie Arden. I thought it right to tell you;” 
said, not in the spirit of confession, but of confi- 
dence, and so spontaneously he knew nothing 
had occurred to which even he could take excep- 
tion; and yet how it paralyzed him! One can 
not board up a treasure from the world so many 
years to discuss tamely the natural history of a 
possible poacher. 

“And does my darling feel much the happier, 
having done so.?” 

‘‘Not much; he’s rather stupid. But I should 
think a young man exactly like him, who knew 
a thing or two, would be very nice.” 

““My dear Lena, I entirely disapprove of this 
style of criticism; it is rude, and partakes of 
levity.” 

“ Well, I don’t know any thing about that; I 


86 A MODERN 


talk pretty much as I feel. Ah, there’s Kit; I’ve 
to pay her out for teasing Dick!” Abruptly de- 
scending from his knee, she swooped upon the 
unfortunate culprit, a magnificent cat of foreign 
breed, one of the costly toys St. Aubyn had pro- 


vided to promote her pleasure and enjoyment. It | 


is doubtful if she had ever had one wish ungrati- 
fied, save that dangerous but perfectly natural 
one of the discovery of the world. The world 
that was probably so large, filled with so many 
more things than she had ever seen, and where 
beings moved who were altogether different to 
those she had hitherto met—heroic and hand- 
some men, and women like a throng of queens. 
She had an old book of geography secreted away 
somewhere, containing a description of the mighty 
metropolis; and a quaint court history, from which 
she deduced the conclusion that London was prin- 
cipally inhabited by lords and ladies, dukes and 
duchesses, earls and countesses, compared with 
whom plain Mr.’s were as nothing. She had longed 
for some one who would talk with her upon these 
matters—tell her of the exalted beings of whom 
she had but her own fancy to guide her in con- 
ceiving. Mentioning them to St. Aubyn was to 
give instant pain; the poet face clouded, and he 
would almost querulously entreat her not to talk 
or think of any such nonsense: whereupon she 
thought the more. 

Finding matters had gone as far as they had, 
St. Aubyn, making a grace of necessity, sent to 
William Arden, inviting him down to join them, 
at the same time forwarding a note to his old 
friend, William’s father, acquainting him with 
what had occurred, and delicately suggesting that 
he should drive over for his son. Mr. Arden was 
pastor of a village six miles from the coast, peo- 
pled by fisher families, stone-quarriers, laborers 
of the agricultural tracts, and stragglers from 
Whitby, poor men, but skilled in the carving of 
jet. The Rev. Mr. Arden entertained affectionate 
esteem for the master of the Boarded House, 
knowing he was his sole visitor, and being to 
some extent in the confidence of the recluse, for 
whom, although not agreeing with, he was full of 
sympathy. His parish and rural labors had yield- 
ed no experience of the finer phases of human 
suffering ; it had been in the rough for the most 
part, and when, years ago, the cultured inmate of 
the great new house upon the cliff had sent for 
him, and there in his own house at regular inter- 
vals received the ministry of the Church, Mr. Ar- 
den had welcomed the unusual break in the mo- 
notony of dull country labor with excessive pleas- 
ure, and the two became quietly appreciative 
companions. Once or twice he had ventured to 
reason with the stately scholar thus isolated from 
the world, but Ashton St. Aubyn was not, at this 
day, a man to be reasoned with. In past times 
it might have been otherwise. 

William Arden was relieved to find that Lena 
was just as vivacious, contrary, and absurd in the 
presence of Mrs. Brandon and her father as she 
had been when with himself, and was so much of 
a child still—one of the first things done upon 
his joining them in the sitting-room being to in- 
troduce him to her doll, a large and very beauti- 
ful specimen of wax moulding. 

“Don’t you like dolls ?” she asked, disappoint- 
edly, seeing it was received with awkwardness ; 
the young man really not understanding the 
handling of it. 


MINISTER. 


“Not much,” 

“Ah! Perhaps you like those who play with 
them better ?” 

Now here was a confusing question, especially 
when illustrated by her roguish smile. He nodded 


slightly, and escaped to St. Aubyn, who was cutting - 


the leaves of a newspaper with marked deliber- 
ation. 

“T have been admiring the view from your 
house, Mr. St. Aubyn. You displayed true artistic 
judgment in the selection of its site.” 

The master bowed. “Do you think so? My 
chief object was to escape tourists and the other 
abominable offshoots and stragglers from modern 
society.” 

“Grumpy old tyrant,” said William to himself ; 
“T thought he would like me to admire his for- 
tress.” Mr, St. Aubyn handed him the paper, 
and William, who was very forgiving, forgave at 
once. He glanced through the journal, glad of 
the occupation, with a quiet look now and again 
at the fair girl trimming her ferns. 

‘“‘Sleperton Manor-house !”” exclaimed William, 
suddenly, looking up from his reading. 
my father has a pencil drawing of that place 
over the mantel-piece in his room! Idon’t know 
how he came to be possessed of it, but I am al- 
most sure that is the name.’ 

“Well, what is the matter, Sir § ? A fire?” 
asked St. Aubyn, rising, and, without betraying 
any conspicuous interest, manifesting a alight 
impatience. 

“Oh no; this is the paragraph ; I will read it: 
‘We have it upon creditable authority that the 
fine old residence known as Sleperton Manor- 
house, the ancestral seat of the Lindons, which 


has been for many years unoccupied, is being re- 


stored and refurnished in expectation of the re- 
turn of Lady Lindon, who, after prolonged ab- 
sence in India, will, it is stated, sojourn several 
months in the year at the Manor-house.’ ” 


Mrs. Brandon rose, quietly observing, “I think 
Williams has come back, Sir;” then holding the 
door ajar, and making way respectfully. St. Au- 
byn, as he passed out, rewarded her with a glance 
of deep gratitude. Hortense Brandon never lost 
an opportunity of seizing the time and tune, and 
it was by such little things that she maintained 
the ascendency she possessed. She saw he was 
suffering acutely, and her instinct told her she 
would win gratitude by thus contriving his re- 
treat. 

Within a couple of hours the Rev. Mr. Arden 
arrived, greatly to William’s surprise and some- 
what to his annoyance. It seemed such happi- 
ness to be sitting down in the same room with 
Lena, who was so unlike any being he had ever 
met. She had acquired unlimited sway. 

After the old gentleman had expressed exuber- 
ant gratitude for the preservation of his boy, and 
affectionately embraced him, Mr. Arden and St. 
Aubyn retired to the study, where the master ac- 
quainted his friend with the strange piece of 
news concerning Sleperton Manor-house. 

“You would do well to take such gossip with 
reservation, my dear Sir; but there is nothing to 
prevent your running down yourself, and ascer- 
taining if it is correct.” 

St. Aubyn shook his head. “TI do not like to 
desert Lena even for that short time; and, after 
all, why should I trouble or care? Am I not 


(33 Why, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


dead to all the world ? 


plicable to me.” 

“Do not be restless about Lena, if you would 
like to go. My son’s term has almost expired, 
and he will return to his duties on Monday even- 
ing at the latest.” 

“Thanks, my dear friend. You, knowing all, 


know also how sincere is my appreciation of | 


your thoughtfulness. I should like to see the 
old place once again.” 

“Then go, and God speed you. I would ac- 
company you myself, but that I shall render you 
greater service by watching over your one ewe 
lamb. I will drive over every day. By-the-bye, 
you have confidence in this Mrs. Brandon —I 
mean to the extent of leaving her in charge ?” 

“ Perfect confidence; she studies my happiness 
closely. She has peculiarities, like the rest of us, 
but is an estimable and worthy person. A cler- 
gyman’s widow, by-the-way, I have always under- 
stood !”” 

“Then I am not surprised her husband is no 
longer among us!” said Mr. Arden to himself. 

It was time to go. Lena, winding a ball of 
wool by the window, looked up to say good-by, 
first to Mr. Arden and next to his son, St. Au- 
byn standing near, feeling as though he could 
sever the hand touching that of his darling. He 
had suffered himself once, and time was when he 
was the most unsuspecting of men. 

“‘ Good-by, Miss Lena!” There was such Bleak 
honest light in his Saxon eyes, even St. Aubyn 
felt ashamed of his annoyance. 

“Good-by, Willie!” she said, returning his 
look so roguishly his good resolutions tottered 
again; and to complete her wickedness she let 
fall a pair of sleeve-links, which he picked up 
and handed back to her with a face that was 
scarlet. 

———— 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 
THE ONE EWE LAMB. 


On the Monday following St. Aubyn left home. 
It was the first time he had been absent, and the 
forebodings he experienced he looked upon as 
natural, and in no sense in the light of a pre- 
sentiment. It required some resolution to make 
up his mind upon this question of departure, but 
this hesitation seemed so weak and unmanly, he 
strove to forget the disinclination altogether in 
remembrance of the pleasure it would give him 
to visit again, if but for an hour, the old Manor- 
house at Sleperton. 

Lena did not like itatall. ‘She pouted, turned 
very cross, would not say good-by at first, or ac- 


cept his farewell kiss, and repeatedly declared’ 


she would go as well. However, it was managed 
somehow, and the willful beauty appeared recon- 
ciled to her banishment. He promised to bring 
her all sorts of presents, and made her write out 
a list of all the things she wanted in the world. 
He would return on Tuesday evening, if not too 
late, the nights being dark, and the road a lonely 
one; or on Wednesday morning at the furthest. 

After going some distance from the house, he 
could not resist returning to say “ good-by” 
again, half disposed to give up his journey ; it was 
so hard to leave her. 

“Take care of her,” he said, with dim eyes, 


Lady Lindon is welcome ' 
to return, although the motive, I admit, is inex-, 


87 


holding Mrs. Brandon’s hand in his, “‘ you can not 
tell how hard it is for me to leave her!’ All 
sympathy, her face wearing a tenderly compas. 
sionate look, the worthy and estimable person 
pledged herself to exert the most solicitous guard- 
ianship. And he went away sad and dull, but 
contented. 

“ And now, my diclingy is your time!” said the 
sweet woman when they were alone. ‘ Young 
Mr. Arden can not have started; make him take 
you to London, and give you a glimpse of the 
City of Lords and Ladies !” 

“Oh, Mrs. Brandon, but is there time? 
get back before papa returns ?” 

“Get back! Why, there’s time to go to Chi- 
na! You'll never have another opportunity.” 

‘Papa will be so grieved when I tell him; for I 
should tell him, and directly.” 

“Of course you would; you are always doing 
some such ridiculous action. But decide, and I'll 
get your things together, and take them to the 
foot of the cliff, where I will wait till you join me.”’ 

‘I’m so bewildered now it comes to the chance, 
but nevertheless, I should like to go, and of course 
Willie can take care of me; but will you go, dear 
Mrs. Brandon? You faven’t had a holiday for 
some time.” 

“ Not now, my child, I—am—waiting! Sight- 
seeing always gives me the headache; but you 
are young, and have all to see.” 

“Yes, I will go!” cried Lena, starting up and 
clapping her hands, the pretty face irradiated 
with smiles. And then that faithful woman put 
together a few articles of clothing such as the 
child would be likely to want for her journey. 
Muttering at her work, she disclosed, had any 
one been there to listen, the nature of her dia- 
bolical plot.—“ Now, missy, I shall be even with 
you for your studied impertinence, and with you, 
Mr. Noel Barnard, for your worse deceit. Re- 
turn! No, she will not return; wrong blood in 
her veins! And a lovely child like that adrift 
upon the world will find no lack of friends to 
prevent it. You want to see the world, my dear, 
and the lords and the dukes and the earls? 
Well, yow’re going to, and I hope you’ll see one you 
fancy, and leave this precious hermit to my ten- 
der care! If Master Arden’s the laddie I take 
him for, he’ll perfect the education he has been 
privileged to commence. So I’ve done my best 
for you. A mother couldn’t have done more.” 
Cold, snake-like, bitter as death, the tone and the 
voice. Was there no spirit hovering near to 
bring back the loving guardian of the child’s ten- 
der youth? Was there no influence to re-direct 
homeward his reluctant steps, so that this terri- 
ble catastrophe might be averted? Alas! all 
seemed favorable to the false woman’s scheme. 
She quitted the house unobserved, and at the 
foot of the cliff was shortly afterward joined by 
the young lady. Even this was new ground to 
Lena, and she looked about her with a sense of 
delight and wonderment. 

Although a long walk, they went over the 
ground quickly, animated by very opposite feel- 
ings; to Lena the distance seemed nothing, all 
was so new and strange. And so this was the 
world? She loved it already. She had seen lit- 
tle of it yet, however, save the gray stone cot- 
tages, and cotter girls with handkerchiefs about 
their heads. When the village was reached, she 
was properly impressed by its size and the quaint 


Can I 


88 


groups of cottages; but it was at the house of 
Parson Arden that she felt the greatest thrill; 
this also was of stone, and gray, but so covered 
with creepers it looked like some picture. 

William Arden was reclining on a garden seat, 
cigar in mouth, and dozing; and now came the 
need for caution by Mrs. Brandon, who, like all 
creatures of the reptile class, had an inner sense 
which indicates the enemy: the lady entertained 
a strong objection to being seen from the Par- 
sonage windows. They adopted the device of 
throwing a pebble. Lena aimed it, and hit Mr. 
Arden upon the nose. He got up, swearing at 
the humble-bees, and then heard his name called 
from the direction of the roadway. 

“Willie!” He was over the fence in a flash, 
and found Lena there, blushing and beautiful, 
and he bowed to her, with a happy smile over all 
his face. 

“T’ve come, Willie.” 

“So I see. I was but just dreaming of you. 
How good of you to give us a call! But come 
in; father’s preparing his sermon, and there is 
no one to interfere with us.” 

“T haven’t time; I’m going with you to Lon- 
don, and must come back to-morrow.” 

He opened his eyes wide at that. Mrs. Bran- 
don explained all, aside. “If you don’t take her, 
she’ll go alone.” 

“Then so she shall,” said Willie, who did not 
believe a word of it, and who, to do him justice, 
would never have acted in the manner required 
of him; “but / advise Miss Lena’s return to the 
house. Why, you can not know ‘what you are 
talking about, either of you.” 

“JT do not,” replied the companion, with an 
extremely simple air. ‘I know no more of the 
dear child’s fancy for London than I know of 
London itself; but I do know she is bent upon 
going, and that it will take a stronger will than 
mine to turn her.” 

“Then let mine be that stronger will. Oh, 
Lena dear, I would not take my own little sister, 
had I one—how much less you! Stay away; 
rest content with your beautiful home, I beg!” 

“Tt’s all very well for you, who have been all 
over the world and seen every thing, to give that 
advice; but do you know, Willie, I am growing 
up an ignoramus as regards geography? What- 
ever shall I know, and whatever good shall I 
be?” 

“You will know quite enough and be good 
enough to make any honest man happy, Lena, 
and to be the sunshine of his home and heart.” 
He took her hand; she did not withdraw it; and 
he thought he had gained his point, when, at a 
sign from Mrs. Brandon, she said, ‘‘ Good-by.” 
Yes, he imagined she would return to the house 
upon the cliff. 

“Now,” said Mrs. Brandon, when Willie Ar- 
den was out of sight, “as that young man will 
not prove your friend, I must.” 


———_.@——___—— 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 
ADRIFT. 


Mrs. Branpon hailed the driver. of a wagon 
plodding at slow speed along the main road; the 
man contemplated her with an obtuse, insolent 
stare. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Are you going many miles along the London 
road, my good fellow ?” 

“Yes I be, a matter o’ ninety or so.” 

“Then, if I give you five shillings, you'll give 
my niece a lift, and set her down wherever you’re 
bound for ?” 

‘““ Ay, that I will, an’ with pleasure, an’ take 
moighty care on her; so jump ye up, my lass; 
here’s a heap o’ sacks, and sure you’re welcome !” 

But the child demurred. 

“Come, don’t be silly, the man can’t wait. 
Now’s your time, my love, and a pleasant jour- 
ney.” And the child, who knew nothing of trav- 
elling or of distance, did so, the woman kissing 
her black-mittened hand, while the wagon went 
slowly on its way. 

“Well, I fancy you're a little bit of a fool, 
William,” said the plotter, as she cautiously pass- 
ed Mr, Arden’s house on her way home, “and I 
think Miss Lena St. Aubyn is wiped off the slate !” 

Sheltered from the wind, shadowed from the 
sun, enthroned upon her pile of sacks, Lena’s ad- 
vent into the world was a tolerably curious one; 
and, both amused and frightened, she looked 
along the broad backs of the horses at the white 
stretch of roadway, and wondered what marvels 
were in store for her. The rough smock of the 
countryman and his wide-awake hat were objects 
of singular interest to her, and she wondered at 
his red neck and face and the silly smile puckering 
his cheeks, but not impressed by these, she con- 
fined her attention to the scenery upon either side. 

Not so her companion, who, never having seen 
any thing so fresh and pretty, fed his eyes greed- 
ily. Disposed to be good-natured, he produced a 
hunch of bread and bacon, which he offered to 
share with her, but she declined it with civil 
thanks. 

“‘Be’s you a milkmaid from the village?” he 
asked. 
~ “No, I be’nt!” replied the girl, copying the di- 
alect, and returning his gaze unflinchingly. 

“Well, what be ye?” 

“That’s neither here nor there; you were paid 
to give me a lift, weren’t you, not to ask ques- 
tions? Save those for my aunt when you get 
back.” 

He said no more, and the girl had a long, si- 
lent, tedious interval to herself, and she thought 
there was not so much to see in the world after 
all. They did certainly pass an ancient castle, 
partly in ruins and partly inhabited, and Lena 
gazed with speculative interest on the ivied tur- 
rets and narrow loop-holes set in dismantled bat- 
tlements. They came, after this, upon a rock- 


scattered expanse of moorland, upon purple 


reaches of thick undergrowth, upon stone walls 
winding away, dividing the property, upon streams 
gushing over the bowlders and rippling among 
the bracken, upon mills with lofty chimneys that 
struck the girl with amazement, and long arrays 
of windows where the factories clove the land- 
scape with a clear white line; they came upon 
low-pitched cottages, with great gardens, from 
which their summer splendor had departed, and 
genteel houses that seemed to frown down upon 
the others of less degree, and slim-spired church- 
es in sharp relief against the sky. There was 
ample time for observing all, for their progress 
was slow; but the girl commenced to weary of 
it, looking back. F 
“T do think that Willie Arden a disagreeabl 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


thing!’ she said to herself, fidgeting the ear of 
one of the sacks, and feeling tired of sitting so 
long in one position. 

“Tf you don’t mind, I should like to get down 
for a little while, and when we come to the next 
inn have something to eat and drink.” He pull- 
ed up at that, and the girl sprang lightly to the 
ground. It was a singular sensation, that of un- 
fettered freedom even after the years of gentle 
restraint. At liberty to go whither she would, 
no one to say her nay, the wide world before her, 
and no one to control or stop her wandering. 
Yet, for all the sense of pleasant liberty, she miss- 
ed the loving voice to which she had been so long 
accustomed, the face with its melancholy beauty 
and imperious firmness. Looking at the sky 
where the arch was losing the brightness of its 
lustre, she asked her guide when they would 
reach the end of their journey. r 

“Not afore to-morrow arternoon or evening, 
mum; and we'll have to go well to do it by then,” 
he replied, affectionately whisking a fly from the 
horse’s flank. 

The girl stood overwhelmed. Why, she mus 
be back again by that! ‘“‘ Whatever could Mrs. 
Brandon have been thinking of ?” and, cast upon 
her own resources, she thought more deeply than 
ever before in her life. She had plenty of money 
with her, and would not waste time crawling along 
the world like a snail: she would travel in one 
of those things they had seen darting along the 
embankment, with volleys of smoke and sparks 
flying from the head. 

‘“‘You see that,” pointing to the serpent disap- 
pearing in the distance, “isn’t that a train ?” 

“Yes, mum.” 

“Take me to where they stop and wait for the 
people, and I’ll give you half a crown.” 

“Well, sure an? I will! New Malton’s close 
by here, and the station, where ye can book for 
York or London, or wheresomever ye choose.” 

At the station her plaintive “I want to go to 
London, please!” so thawed a stony dignitary in 
fustian, that he took her under his especial care, 
procured her a ticket, and placed her securely in 
a first-class compartment. Then began a new 
sensation; and can any thing be more startling 
than travelling thus for the first time? The 
country seemed to her to be flying past the win- 
dows, and she was speculating upon the meaning 
of those long wires running along beside them, 
and moving now up, now down, when they glided 
into a great maze of houses and streets, and she 
saw for the first time a city. ‘“‘ York!” was call- 
ed out, and she referred in memory to the geogra- 
phy of that place, but could remember nothing 
of it, and she looked down upon the outspread 
panorama with awe and admiration. The bustle 
and confusion upon the platform, and excitement 
of the day altogether, gave her a slight headache ; 
one lady and gentleman in the carriage were very 
kind, however, and in spite of the commotion she 
felt more at home than she had done in the wagon. 

Another long track, but which from the diver- 
sity of the scenery on either side appeared short 
to the novice, and Doncaster was reached. Here 
she was much amused at a number of hounds, 
slim, graceful, tawny, or leaden colored, held in 
leash, and which she wished to jump out and 
fondle; never having seen such, they pleased her 
by their elegance and glossy coats. The com- 
partment filled up here; three gentlemen in gray 


89 


shooting dress, and evidently, from directions 
given to servants in livery, the owners of the grey- 
hounds, entering with much ease of manner and 
laughter. These quickly remarked their fair 
neighbor; her eyes not drooping, for very inno- 
cence, beneath their bold gaze, they began to 
think, “‘ What manner of maid is this?” One 
desired politely to know whether she would like 
the window closed. Another remarked upon the 
extreme beauty of the day. The third did not 
speak, but looked, and the child edged nearer her 
female fellow-passenger. This lady kindly in- 
quired how far she was going, and she replied to 
London. Both the lady and her husband regarded 
her with benevolent interest. There was an un- 
derstanding of some occult nature between the 
three gentlemen, who looked at the blushing girl 
and at one another, and appeared particularly re- 
lieved when, at Retford, the lady and gentleman 
prepared to leave the carriage. A pleasant pros- 
pect changing very much when, having removed 
their wraps and bags from the carriage, the lady © 
called Lena to her, and said, 

“Come out of this carriage, my dear; I think 
we can find you a more comfortable one.” And 
they placed her in a compartment where the ma- 
jority of the occupants were ladies. How the 
defenseless are watched over! Could St. Aubyn 
have contemplated for one moment the contin- 
gency of his beautiful child ever being boarded 
in with three men of the world, as appeared for 
the moment imminent! Yet utter strangers saw, 
and saved! What a long time it takes us to 
believe there really are people so graciously 
thoughtful ! 

Lena’s new neighbors were a Sister of Mercy 
(who puzzled her extremely), and her friend, a 
lady of severe neatness, engaged in knitting a 
stocking, and who asked her if she was confirm- 
ed. Not understanding the meaning of the ques- 
tion, Lena answered in the affirmative, and the 
lady nodded with placid satisfaction. There was 
also a lady of florid belongings, who was in a 
state of much uneasiness concerning a pet parrot 
she carried in its cage upon her knee; this lady 
became violently excited at each stopping-place, 
because, upon dispatching one of the officials to 
ascertain, she discovered that the refreshment 
contractors did not supply bird-seed, and, for this 
reason, falling foul of the good man and every 
member of his family, and of every servant of 
the company, and the whole railway system alto- 
gether. Lena felt rather afraid of this lady, but 
she solicited permission to look at the parrot, so 
mollifying the Amazon that she uncovered the 
bird, which, beginning immediately to call the 
Sister of Mercy names, had to be sent to roost 
again without an introduction. And there was a 
very thin and wedge-like lady who sat bolt-up- 
right, fixing the child with a steely stare, and 
never looking to the right hand or the left; Lena, 
who supposed she had a stiff neck, felt full of 
compassion, and not in the least affected by the 
metallic expression. There was a little gentle- 
man, in a great hurry, fuming because the train 
was so late, and vowing he would make a com- 
plaint ; it was very irritating, but the others could 
not help it, and took no further notice of him ; the 
parrot pecked at him through the brown paper 
until the gentleman’s eyes watered to wring that 
parrot’s neck. Her fellow-passengers sufficient- 
ly amused our little girl to make the distance 


99 


bridging Retford and Peterborough one-half the 
length it seemed to the ordinary traveller. 

And all this time the sky grew paler, and a 
deeper blue was spreading in the east; at some 
of the village houses lights began to twinkle, and 
windows of road-side ale-houses shone red upon 
dusky backgrounds of fallow land. The stream- 
lets, winding like shining ribbons athwart dull 
green acres, looked weird and ghastly, and like 
the decoration of diablerie. Farm-yards were 
shadowy, and the clustered cattle looked like un- 
gainly masses of sombre color. Stars came forth 
one by one; she wondered were these the stars 
she had so often watched, and she thought with 
a sigh of the dear old house upon the cliff. 

When St. Albans was reached, the lights in the 
shop windows and lively aspect of the town at its 
brightest time caused the child to wish herself at 
her journey’s end; she had taken little refresh- 
ment during the day, being buoyed up by excite- 
ment, and now faintness and lowness were the 
natural consequences of the reaction, She was 
told London was near, and she looked forth with 
renewed interest. And towns were thicker to- 
gether here; they seemed to glide from one to 
another, quick almost as thought, and houses be- 
came more numerous between the towns. Then 
streets in line, then great works, and netting of 
vast lines of lights, huge buildings, and a mass 
of houses, with a hazy cloud overhanging the 
city, and no more stars or clear blue sky; distant 
rumbling of the traffic, swaying in the air of the 
mighty buzz, a throb as of a great heart beating, 
a crush of confused sounds, glimpses of thronged 
streets, keen echoes of the business doing, crowds 
of hurrying men and women, and soft gliding of the 
compartment alongside a platform; then Babel. 

“What is this?” she asked, with a frightened 
look. And the answer came, 

“Tt is London!” And they hastened away, 
leaving her sitting in the carriage, rubbing her 
eyes, and not knowing what to do next. A guard 
came up: 

_“* Now, miss, if you please!” looking with some 
suspicion at the confused young mortal. And 
she left the carriage, and was jostled about to 
the end of the platform, and from thence into 
the streets, where she staggered, so overwhelm- 
ing was that new experience. 

‘She did not know what to do, but looked in the 
shop windows, and, tired though she was, felt 
vastly entertained. But what a contrast to her 
calm, uneventful life! 

She was at King’s Cross, and she threaded her 
way among the people with brave determination 
to see the most in the short time before her. 
Keeping to the line of shops, and following the 
way vehicles and those upon the pavement were 
chiefly moving, she took the western direction, 
and after walking some distance along Euston 
Road, arrived at a confusing junction of dazzling 
thoroughfares, where, indeed, Tottenham Court 
Road and Hampstead Road intersect the main 
route. The glitter enticing her each way, and 
reminding her of her fanciful visions of Lord and 
Ladydom, she ventured to accost a pleasant-look- 
ing woman of many colors. 

‘“*Can you tell me, ma’am, where the lords and 
ladies walk, if you please ?” 

Whereat the woman looked down upon this 
country questioner with a comical expression, 
but told her, genially enough, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“You must make for the west, my dear; ask 
for Regent Street; any one will direct you; but 
first take yonder road and go to its end, when 
you can ask again.” 

The matron looked, long after the pretty child 
had walked away in the direction pointed out, 
and she said, “ Pity she is out alone this time of 
the evening! I hope her poor mother knows on 
it ; indeed I wish I hadn’t told her the way now.” 

And Lena trudged onward, as unconscious of 
ill in the great city as of its extent; onward by 
way of Tottenham Court Road into Oxford Street ; 
and then asked for Regent Street, and was guided 
by the undeviating courtesy of the Londoner. 
Shops were closed for the most part in the grand 
crescent, but many overdressed people were walk- 
ing the promenade. Were these the lords and 
ladies ? she wondered. How beautiful the city 
looked !—and she wandered on until she came to 
a square where, right opposite, was a large build- 
ing, illuminated and highly brilliant; and asking 
of an old Irishwoman its meaning, was told it 
was the “ Palace.” 

“Then there,” cried Lena, “‘must be where 
the lords and ladies walk !” 

And assured with a fiendish grin that such was 
the case, this dove, fallen so mishappily upon 
grimy city ways, made for the glittering temple 
of amusement, and was pausing before the en- 
trance, wondering how best to obtain admittance, 
and watching with vivid interest the lords and 
ladies arriving in their chariots. Then noticing 
a man of most kind and thoughtful aspect, and 
who bore more than any she had seen, in her 
opinion, an air of lordliness, although to be sure 
its nobility was somewhat faded, she timidly 
stopped him, while hurrying on his way intent in 
thought, and talking importantly to himself. 

“Will you tell me, Sir, where I may see the 
lords and ladies?” .” 

And he drew himself up with a jerk, looking 
down on the piece of blushing eagerness before 
him, perhaps caught by the wistfulness in her 
eloquent eyes, or moved by that confidence in 
himself. 

“To be sure I will: at my lodgings. They are 
coming to-night, and you will be welcome! And 
better there than out here at this time of the 
night.” And the man they thought mad took 
the little stranger reverently by the hand, leading 
her to a quiet street where few lights served to 
bedazzle, and but a few of London’s citizens 
found their way; and on the course thereto he 
said to her, impressively, 

“T am Sir Dickson Cheffinger; you will not 
forget my name—Sir Dickson Cheffinger. Al- 
ways call me so, before our noble and illustrious 
guests, and alone. And you ?” 

“ Tam a princess!” 


“T have waited for this!” cook Sir Dickson,. 


breathlessly. 


——— 


CHAPTER. XXIX. 
LENA. 


Tuer effect of Lena’s announcement upon Mr. 
Cheffinger was so startling and all-absorbing that 


he scarcely deemed it proper to violate etiquette - 


by any longer walking by her side. With the 
most supreme homage he stood aside while she 


preceded him into the humble lodging, and with 


a 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the graceful deference of a courtier of the old 
school he waited at the foot of the stairs until 
she had passed. 

“May it please your highness to enter the 
chamber immediately upon your right ?”’ 

It was dark, and she tumbled over a hassock ; 
but royalty does not keep on the ground long, 
and this vivacious representative was not very 
much discomposed. Mr. Cheffinger was in agony; 
to think that a princess—the princess, doubtless, 
he had been so long expecting—should meet 
with such a disaster in his reception-room, filled 
him with sincere regret, and for the time deprived 
him of the power of searching for the lucifer- 


91 


of those fellows again,’ said his royal highness, 
‘up to their pranks,’ And so I suppose it was; 
but where they are now is more than I can 
fathom.” 

Lena began to feel a little alarmed. It was all 
very well to have her rank admitted—she had so 
styled herself in a playful mood, remembering, 
with half a pang, the master’s term of endear- 
ment—but looking for lords and ladies in the 
dark was not much good. The worst of it was, 
as Mr. Cheffinger groped, he knocked over every 
thing that came in his way. Commencing with 
the mantel-piece, he made a clean sweep round 
the room; some articles were broken, more were 


a. 


“AND THE MAN THEY THOUGHT MAD TOOK THE LITTLE STRANGER REVERENTLY BY THE HAND.” 


matches. While this necessary quest was pur- 
sued, and the poor fellow, in sore confusion, fum- 
bled about for those useful articles, it was with 
accompaniment of nervous explanation : 

“JT very much beg your highness’s pardon, and 
am sorry to keep you waiting. My man is away 
for a holiday during my stay in town, and I am 
so apt, in the hurry of seeing visitors off, to mis- 
lay the tapers; I never can recollect where I saw 
them last—came upon them the other day in the 
coffee-pot. ‘Now, how,’ said I to the duke, who 
was waiting much as you may be waiting now— 
‘how, by the heralds’, came they there ?? ‘Some 


too solid te break, but the clatter was ominous, 
and the visitor was thinking about retiring, when 
the absent-minded gentleman discovered the box 
under the pillow of the pallet in one corner of 
the room. Upon a light being obtained, a scene 
of extraordinary confusion was revealed, the 
whole place being upside down and in a state of 
terrific disorder. The maid of the bouse, stand- 
ing in fear of this particular lodger, preserved 
her own safety by leaving him to himself, and 
never intruding, much to the said lodger’s satis- 
faction. Being engaged in the pursuit of the 
mission for one or other of his employers, neither 


A MODERN 


of whom had seen or communicated with him 
since entering upon his work, he was absent the 
whole day. He was beginning to feel a little dis- 
heartened. He had traced his friend the Minis- 
ter’s interest right away from Devon into Hert- 
fordshire, but there he had lost all clew. He had 
stood near to a great estate known as Beresford 
Park, and in front of the stone portals of the en- 
trance gates, invoking the lordly denizen of that 
domain until the lodge-keeper had let the dog at 
him, and poor Cheffinger had beaten a precipitate 
retreat. It was very mortifying, after the tedious 
tracing for so great a distance, effected under all 
sorts of disastrous misadventure ; and the inde- 
fatigable explorer resolved upon returning to 
those noble friends in Brighton, who visited him 
when quietly at home in his humble state, but so 
few of whom cared to notice him now that he 
was always on the move. To make matters more 
critical, his store of specie was nearly exhausted ; 
and he returned to London, and there remained, 
using the utmost economy, and devoting every 
day to the interests of those who, in return for 
his success, would restore to him his rights and 
privileges. First to one end of London and then 
to another he had been, in search of any body 
who corresponded with the description furnished 
with so much accuracy. <A clearer head might 
have been pardoned for becoming muddled over 
such an interminable errand; but the state of 
muddle Dickson Cheffinger’s brain got into defies 
description. 

“You see, it’s the crossings,” he explained to 
the princess, after narrating the manifold expe- 
rience of the past few days. “I get half over, 
and don’t know which way to take, and so many 
are shouting at once, I can not attend to all; and 
in the midst of it Lord Somebody will hail me 
from one of the corners, and when I get there 
be gone! I was nearly run over the other even- 
ing,” he said, with solemnity, “and had I not 
raised a hand and cried, ‘Back! It is Sir Dick- 
son Cheffinger!’ I should have been. It was 
an honored name once in London—shall be 
again !” 

Lena listened with patience and sympathy ; she 
was glad to have come in the way of the good, 
innocent, kind, if feeble-minded one, and gave 
him her hand, which he raised to his lips with a 
gallantry delightful to witness. 

“And do you never expect to discover the 
poor boy who ran away, Sir Dickson ?” 

“Oh yes. I shall come upon the little chap 
one of these days in my walks.” 

“‘ And then you will get back your papers ?” 

““T pray so, fervently.” 

“And what will you do with the poor boy? 
Hand him over to his master?” 

‘““No,” replied the man they thought mad; “TI 
shall send him on his way, tell him to be a good 
boy, and never do it again.” 

“Then you are a dear, kind Sir Cheffinger, and 
ZI should like to help you to find him.” 

“Do you know,” said the poor gentleman, sol- 
emnly, “I am not so very much surprised he ran 
away from the solicitor,.for he is an awful-look- 
ing person, and even I felt timid in his presence. 
And you offer to assist my search? Nay, then, 
I must succeed. Sometimes in the night, when I 
lie awake thinking of the Cheffinger estates, I 
have seemed to hear a sweet voice encouraging 


92 


MINISTER. 


miliar with it, I believe you, princess, must have 
been that good and tender genius.” 

“Tt is kind of you to say this, although rather 
like a fairy tale; and somehow you do not seem 
like the people hurrying to and fro in the world 
who passed me this evening. I should think you 
could be very kind if you had some one to love 
and to love you. I wish Willie Arden was here 
to talk with us.” 

“Many are coming. As I walked along the 
streets men whispered, ‘ We are going to stand by 
Sir Dickson Cheffinger’s house to see the company 
arrive. There is a grand reception to-night, and 
royalty is expected.’ And when passing some of 
the great club-houses at Bethnal Green, I heard 
one lord say to another, ‘Can’t stop, old fellow ; 
off to Cheffinger’s ; some awfully nice people there 
to-night.’ And another said, ‘The moke is in the 
barry ; slope it !’—club terms these gentlemen of 
fashion use one to another. And they are coming 
—all coming—anq we shall be busy as bees. I 
get so excited when James is not here to an- 
nounce them, and they crowd in so I can scarce- 
ly greet them fast enough ; but they are very good, 
and make no noise, and will be extra decorous 
to-night, your highness being here. Hush! they 
are coming. Listen to the trail of those court 
robes, the soft fall of slippers on my stairs.” He 
started up, placing his hand to his ear, and listen- 
ing with painful eagerness. “The carriages are 
dashing up, whole lines of them. Hark to the 
coachmen! Where are the police, that this quib- 
bling and quarreling should take place before Sir 
Dickson Cheffinger’s ?” 

He was no longer bent, no longer the care- 
worn, troubled creature she had seen, but erect 
as one of the nobles of that court the Grand 
Monarque rendered proverbial for its elegance. 
He opened the door with dignity, and received 
noble compatriots with grace, leading each haugh- 
ty aristocrat to the footstool of the princess, and 
bowing low before each beauteous dame, to avoid 
treading upon whose costly train he would skip 
for half a yard. To Lena, who saw nothing but 
the miserable untidiness of the dirty, musty cham- 
ber, and the courteous gentleman exercising him- 
self in this fantastic fashion, it was an exhibition 
that would have moved her to tears, had she not 
foreseen that such a course would make him 
more miserable than herself. She, therefore, 
bowed in return to each imaginary personage, 
and acknowledged the pretended homage of the 
noble guests with as great suavity as though to 
the manner born. It lasted for perhaps half an 
hour, when Sir Dickson, standing upon the land- 
ing, called out, ‘Close the entrance doors; our 
chambers are thronged ; we can receive no other 
guests without serious inconvenience. Place their 
cards upon the salver in the hall, and convey our 
thanks for the honor done us.” 

Below, a poor seamstress at her work stopped 
her sewing-machine to listen. No smile or coarse 
unfeeling word came of it, but a shade of pity, as 
she thought, perchance, of her father, whose brain, 
overtaxed by work and worry, had failed him, 
when money was sorely needed in the house to 
fight the wolf at the door. 

And a man with pallid cheek, and a fearful lus- 
tre in his sunken eyes, writing, with aching head 
and heavy heart, heard the call, and murmured, 
“Tt?s the poor mad gentleman up stairs ; but the 


me; and’ now that I hear yours, and become fa- | is happier far than I.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


93 


And a widow painting illuminated ball and din- | in their sleep, I think; there is great noise some- 


ner programmes, heard with a ghastly smile, and 
thought it the proper accompaniment to her pres- 
ent labor. And the landlady also heard him, and 
sipped her gin with a chuckle; for, being weak in 
the head, she had taxed him heavily for the few 
comforts he enjoyed. And down in the horrid 
depths the timorous maid heard and shivered and 
shrank, looking under the sink and in the coal- 
hole, and vowing to acquaint her lover, the butch- 
er-lad, that she was not going to remain “in a 
house as was haunted.” 

Sir Dickson went into his room again, hurried- 
ly spread a newspaper upon the table, brought 
from the spider’s happy hunting ground three 
plates, each piled with cold scraps, the remains 
of former banquets, and an old cracked tea-pot 
of that autumnal-tinted ware more remarkable for 
its cheapness than its elegance. This utensil con- 
tained cold tea—the landlady letting her fire out 
at five o’clock, the poor gentleman was compelled 
to make him sufficient, before starting upon his 
travels, to supply him upon his return. It was 
sorry hardship coming back to such cold and 
cheerless fare, and sorely he felt it, for he was 
not so far gone as that. He was exceedingly sen- 
sitive, and suffered in proportion; still, he en- 
deavored to make light of it, set somebody of 
note opposite to him, poured out the quantity that 
would be taken by the most elegant of little serv- 
ices, handed the three huge cups with dainty gal- 
lantry, and sipped his tea with exquisite relish, 
running on all the time with delicious unconcern 
upon the family histories of first one and then 
another of those noble guests met together at his 
board. 

To have refused a cup of tea would have been 
to seriously wound Sir Dickson’s amour propre. 
Lena graciously accepted the horrible mixture, 
unabashed by the stern military gaze of the Duke 
of Cambridge supposed to be sitting opposite. 
Sir Dickson, busy with his scraps, apportioned 
them with the utmost ceremony, and applied some 
of the most high-sounding names Lena had ever 
heard given to provisions in her life. | 

Like all fashionable little teas, this was not pro- 
longed to the wearisome time natural to common 
folk, and Sir Dickson Cheffinger cleared away. 
It would be interesting to know where the fine 
line was drawn, but it is certain that after he had 
washed up in the toilet basin, not one of the noble 
guests remained, and he seated himself at the ta- 
ble with as commonplace an air as any mechanic 
in her Majesty’s dominions. Leaning head on 
hand, he was for a time lost in thought, then look- 
ed up at the tired little face before him. All its 
classical perfection and slight shadowing of haugh- 
tiness vanished before the fatigue and exhaustion 
of this sudden interruption of the quiet, unevent- 
ful life. Then Sir Dickson said, with solicitude, 

“J am thinking where to accommodate your 
highness. I have no apartment disengaged, and 
I know the hotel to be full; there is no other way 
than to ask your acceptance of this chamber.” 

“ And you—what will you do, Sir Dickson ?” 

“Take my fitting post, your highness, without 
your chamber.” 

“You mean you will sleep on the mat ?” 

“Where the mat ought to be,” he corrected 
her; adding simply, “Ay, I will sleep there, or, 
like the true knight you would wish there, will 
watch until the dawn. Some of my guests walk 


times in the silent hours.” 

“No, Sir Dickson,” said she, firmly ; ‘‘ you shall 
help me to find some comfortable lodging. I 
will never turn you out of your own room thus ; 
nay, no remonstrance; as our liege knight, your 
first duty is obedience.” 

He bowed low, and accompanied her silently 
down the dirty stairs, into the quiet street, cross- 
ing one of more pretentious appearance, where 
two rows of lofty houses scowled and showed 
their teeth all through the night. Then passing 
along a broad thoroughfare where hotels flaunted 
rows of lights and bore singular names upon 
their portals, they wandered into_a disreputable 
quarter, where the houses of entertainment were 
rented by low and unprincipled French. One in- 
nocent as the other, and neither aware how near 
peril one may be in London. 

“Sir Dickson,” the girl thought well to say, 
‘it will be best not to acquaint the people with 
our rank.” 

He therefore accosted a closely shorn individ- 
ual upon the steps of one of these hotels, and 
simply inquired if a bed-chamber could be had 
for a lady. The shorn one lazily dragged his 
bulk the length of.a passage, where a glass par- 
tition, sliding aside at his bidding, disclosed a 
wrinkled face, daubed with paint and encircled 
with a garland of poppies. Having conducted 
the two thus far, the shorn one left them, and 
returned to the portals. The lady of the poppies 
bobbed and waited; the gentleman explained ; 
the lady of the poppies demanded “‘cing chelin.” 
The gentleman informed his young charge that 
he thought five shillings were required, and he 
had left his purse in the escritoire, when Lena 
at once produced her own, and paid the requisition. 
The lady with the garland rang, and a maid of 
brazen attractions glided up to them, bearing a 
brass candlestick. Standing upon a stair, Lena 
gave her hand to Sir Dickson, who touched it 
ever so lightly, ever so reverently, and watched 
wistfully the retreating figure of the spirit that 
had stolen upon his story like a ray of sunlight. 

‘“‘Be with you in the morning,” she called down 
to him, where he stood bare-headed, loyal to the 
last. 

Then he walked slowly away, a little mystified 
by it all, but still somewhat cheered and encour- 
aged. Back to that dull lodging—it did seem 
dull now, and he could not people it; he sat 
down thinking too much of her; and from that 
he thought of his errand, and of the progress 
they were to make together. 

Lena’s guide paused at a door numbered 23, 
and entered; then courtesying, placed the candle- 
stick upon the table. Supposing it for recom- 
pense, the child satisfied her and was left alone. 
She locked the door, looked under the bed, in the 
cupboard, and behind the table; and having done 
this felt tolerably safe; then, throwing herself, just 
as she was, upon the bed, tired out and sleepy, 
with a fond last thought of St. Aubyn, and a 
“‘Good-night, dear,” spoken as usual, passed off to 
sleep. She slept for an hour or more, when the 
noise of quarreling awoke her; there were rough 
words interchanged in an unknown tongue, shuf- 
fling of feet, and echoing of heavy blows, 
Thoroughly alarmed, the child sprang from the 
bed; without a candle, there was yet sufficient 
light proceeding from the street to define the in- 


94 


terior of her room, and she made for the door 
without an instant’s hesitation. The combatants 
were in the adjoining apartment, and the par- 
tition seemed to be nothing but lath and paper, 
and the child expected each moment to see one 
or other of the struggling brawlers come crashing 
through. The conflict raged yet fiercer, and Lena, 
to whom this, one of the delights of social inter- 
course, was foreign as the disputants, could en- 
dure it no longer, but fled down stairs, and out at 
the door, to the great astonishment of the shorn 
one, who was closing for the night. She hastened 
from the quarter altogether: the din of that dis- 
cordant warfare fell rudely upon the ears attuned 
all life long to such different sounds. 

She knew not which turning to take, but tried 
to find the way they had come: she felt she would 
be more safe near him. Alas! streets were so 
much alike, and she was so ignorant of the local- 
ity, it was impossible to retrace her way; he had 
not told her the name of the street or house, nor 
had she, in the busy press of other thoughts, ask- 
ed the important question. When morning came 
it would be as bad. How would she find her 
friend again in all that maze of streets? The 
tears started to her eyes as she saw the shutters 
closing in each lighted home, and heard bolts 
drawn sharp, as if to keep all such forlorn ones 
out in the chilly streets. Who now will help the 
one ewe lamb, all day watched over? Could St. 
Aubyn, who loved this helpless innocent, but look 
upon her now, wandering amidst the homeless as 
homeless as any! 

She could not find the street, or discover any 
one to whom she could tell her tale; all looked 
so unpitying or so wretched. 

Before her, in the gas-light, was a hoarding gay 
with colored pictures and huge letters. She did 
not understand them any more than she under- 
stood why the child, shoeless and unkempt, stood 
below there selling cigar-lights at a half-penny. 
Every fresh poster displayed in the metropolis is 
criticised with an amount of interest by the vul- 


gar equal to that aroused among the refined by. 


the Academy. The walls and hoardings are the 
art galleries of the poor; the beggar, tired of 
tramping the bare bleak tracts beyond the city 
walls, hails sight of these, and feasts eyes upon 
their show of color. And this pale traveller, so 
suddenly aroused from slumbering away her fa- 
tigue, stood below there, gazing up with wonder- 
ment, while the houses closed, and she was all 
uncertain which way to turn. Her lips were 
pressed close with a sort of desperate sadness, a 
despairing longing to be back at home. 
heart was heavier than the God of the outcast 
deemed well; for a poor man, upon his way home, 
spare, uncomely, stooped over her with a chivalry 
that refined all the roughness, and made him every 
inch a gentleman. Was she ill, or had she lost 
some one? ‘Too honest to acknowledge the one, 
too timid to admit the other, she only shook her 
head, leaning upon the hand-rail before the hoard- 
ing; and he went on his way regretfully. 

What clatter of vehicles and rude jostling of 
the passers-by! How heartily she wished herself 
away, even upon that quiet Yorkshire road of the 
morning, when the good wife’s kindly welcome to 
her wooden bench seemed, from this noisy dis- 
tance, of a wondrous sweetness! Truly she would 
not want to see the world again for some time to 
come. 


And the | as 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


These brown, dingy lines of houses, and frown- 
ing fronts of dreary streets, were chilling and 
painful, holding out no welcome; nay, repelling 
from the very door-steps. 

A woman passing with an infant noticed the 
pale, frightened look of the girl, and:with great 
kindness inquired if she had lost her way. And 
Lena answered her “ No,” thanking her warmly, 
however, for the kind tone touched a tenderer 
chord. “It’s little enough I’ve done, goodness 
knows,” the woman said, with feeling. “If we’re 
not kind to one another at this time o’ night, ’'d 
like to know when we could be? But some peo- 
ple are kindest when there’s lots o’ sunshine; they 
seem to need that to draw it out on ’em.” And 
she too walked on, and the child was again alone. 
The woman had recalled her own youth, her own 
coming up to London, and before that life began, 
at a pretty cottage far away a sweet home bro- 
ken up. She remembered the ivy, thick on the 
walls, and the wild-rose forest at the rear; the 
lavender-trees below the windows, and the clem- 
atis bower at the porch; the mossy tiles, with 
embroidery of lichens all the sloping length; the 
shady elm by the well near the apple grove; and 
the holly hedges, thick all the snow time with gar- 
niture of winter’s jewels. This fair young face 
had called back that picture, as a face sometimes 
will, and when the woman went on her way still 
thinking, it was like leaving the glad old time 
behind. 

And Lena stood wondering why these people 
spoke to her, not knowing how impressive her 
beauty was, how visible her innocence—strange 
and uncommon, doubtless, both of them, at all 
events by midnight lights. 

Walking on, she came to the stone pillars of a 
building, imposing by reason of its spacious archi- 
tecture; the poor, sitting about, made room with- 
the native fellowship of the outcast. One old 
woman ventured to touch with her horny hand 
the raveled skeins of auburn hair; it was some- 
thing of a revelation to the decrepit dame, and 
over the next pinch of snuff she wondered what 
order of being this was. Were the flesh, and the 
blood, and the skin, and the limbs, of another 
mould? And she thought the preacher once 
heard at a crossing where three ways met, had 
not told them quite the truth when he said that 
we all were one. Then a brusque sailor looked 
aslant upon the pretty face of the fair wanderer, 
and thought of the long journey from the Docks, 
over leagues of land and water, where none like 
this were found, but where drear snow met waves 
white, and died upon their passionate bosoms ; 
and that he’d go the safer and better for a kiss 
from the mouth like a wreath of flowers. And 
an old Jew broker passing, one used to dangling 
gems for cursory appraisement, catching the rav- 
ishing glitter in the large eyes, took a quiet oath 
by his patriarch that no diamond had ever flashed 
like these. 

To Lena, who had more than the average share 
of poetry in her composition, this night scene was 
the most wonderful she had witnessed. It con- 
trasted so strikingly with the grand silent nights 
upon the cliff, where the only music had been 
hoarse rumbling of the German Ocean, and the 
only lights the stately stars, or the tapers the 
master had lighted on dark nights of storm, until 
the windows were aglow, and the mansion — 
the beacon of that coast, i 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


‘This was as new to her as the dainty device of 
the playwright to the child who visits pantomime 
for the first time, and sits enchanted before that 
triumph of artists. This also was a fairy realm, 
although the grotesque side of it. True, it was 
not the season when the English infra dignitatem 
coldness thaws to the warmth of chandelier and 
sunlight, and the crowd of rosy faces; when the 
white-haired guardian of some boisterous troop 
surrenders with compliant grace to the mirth of 
the buffoonery, and with splendid companionship 
becomes even as one of their years; such have a 
charm that is all and entirely their own, more 
manifest to the children some thirty years ahead, 
when not all their winning ways nor all their 
grateful memories will replace lost faces, or make 
the circle of home again complete. Not the sea- 
son when the huge doors before which she is now 
resting are open, while a throng of little ones 
pass to the carriages, when white-gloved hands 
grasp the programme as though clinging to a 
shred of their Elysium, and red or white hoods 
cover up the golden tresses, so that such as this 
poor child see only a straggling curl or two. Then 
there are peeps of blush-rose throats, with a cross 
of diamonds or locket of chased gold with pearls, 
and young gallants who look all lovingly to the 
care of their sweet girl-charges; but it was all 
very dead and gloomy just now, with the lamp- 
light wind-blown and flickering, and these desti- 
tute ones cowering ; it was all a masquerade thus 
far, this experience of the city’s night side. Con- 
sidering the surroundings, nothing could well be 
more strange to her. That great edifice rearing 
like a mausoleum, the pillars casting sullen shad- 
ows vault-like and chill, where the ghouls of an- 
cient memory hunting grim echoes of tragedy 
still haunted the area. The glamour of the lights, 
itinerant vendors taking up their stand for the 
night, like wizards by unholy fires; houseless 
Bohemians idling past the building with a shiver, 
thinking of the work-house or the jail; dog 
starvelings that came to her side with a pitiful 
look, lean horses plodding home, children from 
reeking courts, who found more shelter beneath 
the pillars of old Drury than where their drunk- 
en kin caroused and fought; women, like shad- 
ows—bodiless, soulless, only the tormented spirit 
left urging them to the black and ghastly stream. 
All strange, most strange! She moved away 
from the place. 

Opposite to her was a shop still open, with 
stale cakes, dry buns, dirty sweetmeats, and choc- 
olate in the window; she entered, and a loath- 
some rabble hailed her with yells of delight. She 
stood by the counter, where an unclean Italian 
was spooning pink and yellow garbage from a 
can. “Lemon or strawberry cream ?”’ he asked. 
She did not understand, but inquired if she might 
stop there for the night, a question that stirred 
the rabble to wilder merriment. Springing to their 
feet, they were as a gang of fiends released ; seiz- 
ing the shrinking girl, they dragged her to the 
inner room—a place of nameless abominations. 
But here the spirit Lena had inherited from her 
father and mother, and of which we have caught 
an inkling before, stood her in good stead; for, 
with all her ignorance of things and innocence 
of wrong, she possessed an innate dignity that at 
times flamed savagely as a red-skin’s; and now, 
doubling her fist, she laid about her vigorously, 
and released herself from the assailants before 


95 


they had recovered their surprise at her spirit. 
Like most frequenting these dens, they were young, 
but none the less malicious in a posse, and she 
retreated before the fierce retaliation that seem- 
ed imminent. Fortunately a police-officer was 
near by, and he at once ordered the dealer to 
close for the night. Lena, taking advantage of | 
the circumstance, stole down the quietest street 
at hand; it was Wellington Street; and thence, 
by Tavistock and Southampton streets, she came 
into Covent Garden. 


——_@——_ 


CHAPTER XXX, 
COVENT GARDEN. 


SHe has wandered into Covent Garden, and 
here will pass the night; for it is quieter, and 
there is a something about it, even at this hour, 
reminding her of the pleasant country ways. 

She feels this, not knowing that here upon this 
one pastoral bit of the metropolis is to be seen 
the pageant of life at a glance; that here is life, 
real life; taking the revolution of hours. Buds 
and blossoms, wild and hot-house flowers, fresh 
and faded. Here are characters curious and 
quaint. Some of the hardy sort and sturdy; 
some of quiet ways and by-paths; some of sun- 
less tracts, narrow alley growth, fungi of dim 
courts and the waste; some of gas life, forced ; 
some dried, between the leaves of trouble-days; 
some with poem life, fold within fold; others 
nursing sweet life soft as the thistle’s down; 
some rough and rugged, others like sunshine 
making light of all things: verily here is life, a 
whole procession of the race to pass before the 
child, going this round of Covent Garden. 

Midnight tolls from the church of St. Paul, 
west of the market, with its Tuscan portico; 
which between the starlight and the gas-light 
flickers to a weird archness the fantastic Inigo 
himself never dreamed of. This front of the 
ancient fane is classical: upon hustings beneath 
its shadow Fox harangued, Beau Sheridan’s wit 
flashed brilliantly, and Burdett thrilled the Gar- 
den. And this silent plot, this grave-tract girt by 
walls, which it seems even London’s din can not 
disturb, bears ashes of the arts. Here lies Mack- 
lin; near him Wycherley, the dramatist of 
Charles’s day, the friend of courtly Rochester, 
and the Duchess of Cleveland’s especial laureate 
of the boudoir; here they brought Lely, the can- 
vas chronicler of the Stuart harem; Gibbons, 
whose flowers in many a palace wreathe garden- 
garlands in yet fragrant wood; Butler, whose 
Hudibras seems to grin from between the old 
stakes mockingly on the age of paler satire; Wal- 
cot, the after-wit, whose barbed spleen became a 
terror; and other bones, and London dust of 
many as great, as good, although not embalmed. 
The moving shadowy outcast ones there by the 
darkest line of wall recall the grim old sinners 
of the Death Dance pageant, wandering round to 
set to partners ; it is not so, but these would give 
their all—their rattling frames and ragged bind- 
ing—to lay them low in that quiet grave-yard. 
See the long lank fingers clutching on the stone, 
the iron (to steady, you say, thinking it intoxica- 
tion); but the action comes of pain, that grows 
of grief, that is born of wrong; and they look up 
at the old church cursingly. The great calm 


96 


thing mocks, jeeringly; it has seen the peoples 
pass and the world grow gray; you would think 
it would topple, pitifully, at witness of the sad- 
dened lives that haunt with spectral regularity 
its precincts. Tush! When has the Sphinx 
dropped tears for all the Nubian misery that has 
crouched beneath its shadow? The poor of the 
lands, and the cities of the lands, learn first, learn 
last, that stone is stone. 

That? <A haggard and white little face, look- 
ing up with a terrible sadness; the limbs uncared 
for from the birth, all the life a moan, and it 
shrinks here, and when the stars come forth sin- 
gles one, ever the same, ’tis the only love it knows 
from dawn to eve of every year; and when stars 
too are hidden, buries face in knees bewailing 
with quiet grim anguish. No Garden of Eden 
this to such worn folk. There is no need to pass 
between it and the star-line, breaking the one 
ray ever entering that soul, and—be careful of 
that basket of pompons; they are not fresh; 
drabbled, indeed, by weary trailing in the rear of 
purse-strings, but they represent a stock in trade, 
and so are worthy of respect, we think so much 
of trade! Little fingers will adjust the leaves 
and blossoms, and try to earn a breakfast yet 
within the Garden. 

Boom, or clang, which? Tis discordancy any- 
how! It means the First hour’s life has broken 
upon the city of the Thames! 

Not much stirring yet, however. A policeman 
with imposing step awakes the echoes about the 
piazza, and misery lifts an ear, ever alert, raises 
a grimy face, and peers lynx-like; then, while the 
stalwart figure emerges round the corner, and the 
starlight shines on the white buttons, the classic 
helmet, and the bronze face, the hunted start 
from the ground, from behind the baskets, from 
portico and doorway, and glide off with shuffling 
steps, and sneaking looks aslant at the law under 
shadow of the church. 

A boy is seen stealthily making for John, Duke 
of Bedford’s Market-house; he disappears be- 
hind the sacks, and looking about discovers an 
empty one, into which he creeps and lies down, 
pillowing his head upon the wheel-barrow ; he re- 
mains perfectly still, and will soon be asleep, for 
he has been on the tramp all day, and they are 
disturbed at an early hour in Covent Garden. 
Painters have no need to go to Italy for studies. 
Examine nearer home; one often falls athwart a 
piece of beauty as striking in this city as any 
thing found in Rome. This boy, for instance, 
what finer head can be desired? The contour is 
symmetry itself; below the matted curls the 
brow is broad as the white splendor of your own 
darling’s, of which you think so much as you 
hold the little one toward you, and proudly lift it 
on your knee. It is a little king, with all the 
intellectuality of the ancients, and girt in purple 
and fine linen of the moderns. And this! A 
beggar beauty scarce worthy your regard. Years 
since there was a man of Florence who daubed 
gaudily grand studies, making a name as canvas 
names are held; his atelier became the rage, and 
men and women crowded it, eager for each new 
face; and it was rumored he had been for long 
engaged upon a grand boy head, for a study he 
called the ‘‘ Eldest born of Cain ;” and when, aft- 
er long months, this was bared to eyes of critics 
and disciples, such a head was seen as no poet 
dared conceive. “It is a grand conception!” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


they said. He turned with a sad smile from his 
picture. ‘I tried to make it so, for the son of 
Cain; but failed miserably, and had to fall back 
again upon the alleys of our city. It is a life 
copy, that is all!” And this old city of London 
is full of such, but we allow the rags and the dirt 
to prejudice. That highly popular bulb the hya- 
cinth passes through some such stage, and it is 
certain the lily is nowhere as beautiful as in the 
mossy mould of its own wild woodland valley. 
Take now the southeast angle. That sober- 
looking old block is the Hummums, one of the 
super-genteel hotels of London. The young man 
rolling past can not be going there. He is tall, 
and of the sporting variety; a crimson satin tie, 
and bulky watch chain, a cut-away coat, and 
slight cane with dog-head top, are the proper- 
ties; he singeth, but the rhythm is irregular; he 
jolts his low-crowned hat all upon the skew, and 
leers and winks at the stars as though they 
were bar-maids; he flutters and waves a hand- 
kerchief heavy with perfume of the jockey-club ; 
he encircles a lamp-post with his arm while in- 
quiring the way to the central arcade, as he 


thinks he will buy a bouquet; he stumbles over 


baskets, and swears they are drunk, tells a post 
in confidence that he has been to the Alhambra, 
and wants to finish up the night at Evans’s; he 
picks up a cabbage stalk after various ineffectual 
attempts, and fixes it jauntily in his button-hole, 
vaguely defining the thing as a ‘‘ cam-came- 
melia!” An old woman, crooning over a chest- 
nut-brazier, watches the progress of this young 
man with a grim sort of philosophy. 

One—two! Hark, how the clocks catch the 
ripple, and echo back—St. Bride’ s, St. Dunstan’s, 
St. Mary’s, St. Clement Danes, St. Anne’s, St. Mar- 
tin’s, the Temple, and the Chapel Royal—all the 
cordon of steeple and tower. 

Odd-looking loungers are seen here and there, 
near the entrance to the Opera-house, and we 
wonder what on earth they are doing! They are 
divisible. Stand by this pillar—not as though 
watching, for they are queer customers, and all 
the holy folk that walked the garden when St. 
Peter’s Convent stood hereon could not save us 
from an ugly thrust if they suspected espionage. 
Observe those ruffianly fellows with the shaggy 
heads and piercing eyes; they are scrutinizing 
every flag for flotsam and jetsam ; there are rich 
finds here sometimes. Those leaning against the 
stone-work do a melancholy prowl between this 
range and Bow Street, always near the theatre ; 
they love it; if they can pick up a job that takes 
them away, they return to it. Paupers, this 
bound is home! Houseless, the great building 
is their haven! Shreds of programme telling of 
lyric drama, and mighty names taking part 
therein, are treasures when: never a morsel has 
been near the lips for long hours, All day they 
are hanging about; at evening they watch the 
army of musicians enter, sometimes touching 
with more than reverent hand a violin case as 
the men brush past; then to the artistes’ en- 
trance, holding in their opinion the close car- 
riages greater than the Romans held the char- 
iots of Trajan, and looking on the black mus- 
tached ones as beings of a superior order, while 
the scarlet-cloaked grand-dames rank higher than 
the noblesse, who follow next in order of the 
watching. Why? We can not tell! These 
loungers may be broken-hearted, disappointed 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ones, whose altar is strewn with the shattered 
dreams of a strong ambition that was, perchance, 
this great house, and the great twined art it rep- 
resents. Enough that they are the outcast of the 
nomads that hang about the part—English, Ger- 
man, or Italian—enough that they are not as the 
refuse are, haunting other tracts, and that they 
possess the intelligence arising of culture, and in 
this are poorer than the poorest, more wretched 
than the wretchedest. And yet another! No- 
tice the old gray-haired, scantily clothed. one, 
crouching, sitting, leanmg back to the stone as 
though it were his last friend; where is the son’s 
strong arm, the daughter’s regardful care, that 
these aged limbs are here this chilly autumn 
tide? What are the men and women who sleep 
on down thinking of, that such poor old mortals 
are left to repose with this cruel comfort ? 
Come away, and take a turn with more distin- 
guished company in Russell Street. Here stood 
the coffee-houses of the Tatler, ‘Tom’s,” “ Will’s,” 
and ‘“ Button’s.” Here Johnson strolled with 
Garrick, and in yonder house, or thereabouts, Ad- 
dison and Steele revised the Spectator proofs. 


“Here Goldsmith borrow’d half a crown, 
There Colman stoop’d to write it down,” 


and so on, although it is doubtful if the good peo- 
ple whose names are in every body’s mouth per- 
formed the nice detail legend ascribes. - 

A cab rolls past piled high with luggage, prob- 
ably from some terminus. One of the fascinating 
sensations of life, arrival by rail at 2.50 a.m.! 
Or is it some secret case of removal in the gray 
still hours? We remark the wan face by the 
window. Only an effect of this ghastly light, 
perhaps, We also remark a child asleep upon 
the woman’s knee, when ours are warm in bed. 
These London cabs often bear big sorrows, take 
the year round. It has stopped at a private hotel 
in the Garden; the man rings; all is gray, the 
dingy front and dead cold windows look horribly 
unwelcoming; he rings again. Every thing is si- 
lent as the grave; evidently a house where no 
night-porter is retained, or else the man is sleep- 
ing. The lady’s head, clad in mourning-gear, is 
seen by the unearthly light, and her face is anx- 
ious-looking and very pale. She instructs him to 
try elsewhere, and the man blunders impatiently 
to his horse’s head, and leads the tired animal 
across the space to where a light burns all night, 
and a porter dozes in a great black chair. 

A dog turns over the cabbage leaves and other 
refuse remaining to the Garden scavengers. These 
are four kinds: the dogs—a wonderful race; the 
poor—who make many a savory life-sustaining 
dish from these findings; the outcast children— 
who, like the animals, take it in the raw, and nib- 
ble voraciously at the second great kingdom; and 
the official gentlemen of the market—who, with 
dredge and drag, and shovel and cart, clear the 
way for her Majesty’s tradesmen. 

Clock strikes one—two—tureEs, and the dog 
barks: the Covent Garden dogs divide the time 
by barking at the clock and running round the 
market. 

A man wheels a curious machine into the 
square; it is upon wheels, and it steameth; it is 
a contrivance of tin, and it beareth inscript, Hor 
Correr, Pigs, anD SausaGes. There is a small 
cupboard attached, and it containeth crockery; 
from this, having planted his apparatus, the man 

G 


97 


produces cups and saucers ; they are of solid ware, 
and make pottery music that might almost be 
heard at the other end of the hushed and echoing 
market. A pause, then the man strikes his chest 
after the warming method, ties on a semi-white 
apron, pokes at a little fire subterranean to the 
tin works, and plunges a fork into a pan, raising 
a pallid-looking sausage, which he eyes with the 
anxious scrutiny of a connoisseur and profession- 
al cook. The representative dog smells the odor 
of that sausage and its fellows, and comes sneak- 
ing round the corner of the tin, the proprietor of 
which administers a vigorous corrective, and rubs 
the covers of his suite with an old rag kept for 
that purpose. Two men come in sight, workmen, 
printers apparently ; they stop by the early morn- 
ing stall and breakfast. A policeman tramps 
past, and greets the old fellow of the buffet; then 
come a couple of girls, young but not fair, and 
looking very like having been out all night; may- 
be there are reasons. One begs a cup of coffee 
for the two, solemnly promising to pay another 
time; they have been locked out, she explains, 
and are half dead with weariness and hunger. 
Over the way another stall is making a stand. 
Merchant No. 1 indicates his rival, opposite, as 
of more benevolent tendencies, and returns the 
dregs from the last customer’s cup back to the 
can; whereon the lady who hath not spoken in- 
dulges in a volley of oaths directed at this mer- 
chant, his can,.and his coffee. Acclimatized, he 
only smiles satirically, and winks to the market 
clock, which just then goes the quarter. 
Rumbling of wheels is heard, and presently a 
wagon laden high with baskets, secured by ropes, 
and covered with a species of tarpaulin, turns into 
the quadrangle; the team is not high-mettled, 
and the whip and reins hang listlessly in the wag- 
oner’s hands. Under the influence of rum or 
slumber the man does not arouse until a sharp 
shout is heard, and the custodian or officer of the 
Garden starts out from some mysterious recess, 
when he awakes, after a long journey from sweet 
tracts of field and garden land, the most profit- 
able of all garden land, the market-garden. And 
now, from the rear of the edifice, tumbles one of 
the porter breed, and between the two the unla- 
ding is accomplished, and the freightage spread 
in orderly divisions upon the pavement. There 
is a toll on each wagon of vegetable produce and 
on each ton of potatoes, which helps to swell the 
revenues of the market; and the custodian jots 
down memoranda in an official-looking book. 
The first column of smoke now winds upward 
from one of the early-stirring hotels over South- 
ampton Street way; and, Strandward, the gradu- 
al extension of hubbub creeps upon the ear, rising, 
spreading, with the sonance of advancing waves ; 
stealing upon one with a strength of increase that 
is almost majestic, every minute adding to it, until, 
as one—two—three—rour strikes, we flush to 
the voiceful company of London traffic. Wagons 
and vans, carts, trucks, and even barrows, now be- 
gin to arrive in quick succession, and the bustle 
of the day commences; queer men in aprons and 
fur eaps, rough England bound in corduroy; 
brawny women with great baskets weighted and 
overweighted by roots; girls, handkerchiefs tied 
around heads, with bundles of herbs; master- 
gardeners early to the mart, spick and span with 
clean collars ; old fogies with odd botany samples, 
which one would suppose were never uprooted 


98 


from the soil of this planet; strong, rosy-cheeked 
lads from the villages, where the bits of garden 
behind the cottages provide for the pig and the 
family ; little girls with bundles of flowers fair as 
themselves, and looking none the worse for such 
early rising; damsels from the water-cress beds 
with the produce of whole reaches; and sturdy, 
honest-looking sons of the soil loaded with all the 
choice fruits in season. Carefully nailed and 
strawed boxes packed with layer upon layer of 
sweet things in foreign fruit, and others all jewel- 
like, precious in snowy wool. A small army of 
costers, nurserymen in every variety, proprietors 
of monster graperies, proud growers of prize roses, 
and artists in melons and pumpkins. The man 
who considers Kew an imposition, and swears he 
can grow sturdier firs than Norway; the other 
man who delights in fancy names for his apples, 
and has a pear called after every notability in Ku- 
rope. Here is the gardener’s daughter casting 
sheep’s eyes at all the young Colins of the mar- 
ket, and the old woman so extravagantly cross 
because the favorite public-house at the corner is 
late in opening its shutters. One or two out- 
door lamps are still alight, struggling desperately 
with the streaks of color stealing up from over 
Shoreditch and Bethnal Green (the poor receive 
the sun first, sometimes); and in the kitchens and 
over doorways of houses lights are kindling, and a 
hurried meal is preparing for those who, with bag 
and portmanteau, may have to catch the early 
trains. From a hotel a page runs to the near- 
est cab-rank ; he rubs his eyes sleepily, as though 
scarce awake; his hair is tangled and unkempt, 
jacket loose, and cap awry: he rides back with 
the driver, who indulges in a chilly sort of chaff; 
the hotel door opens, and the ‘“ boots” brings 
forth a trunk, which he and the cabman throw 
on the vehicle as if to knock the bottom out, 
and they indulge in by-play of a facetious order. 
Presently a maid with a bonnet-box appears on 
the steps, and mincingly inquires if that clock 
is right. Cabman having assured her a police- 
man sleeps in the works all night to prevent any 
mistake, she trips up stairs and returns with a 
basket, a small box, and a brown paper parcel, 
a cage daintily incased in tissue, pin-punctured, 
and a very large reticule, which are placed with 
scrupulous care in the cab, and the door closed. 
She begs the man to be cautious that the horse 
does not start, and enters once more, returning, 
after a longer interval, with a cat, a foot-warmer, 
a large flower-pot, a bundle, and some books con- 
fined by a strap; these are arranged in the vehicle, 
the driver viewing the ceremony with an expres- 
sion altogether indescribable. Having remarked, 
“It is quite cool this morning,” and bestowed a 
look of ineffable disgust at the driver’s sarcastic 
cast of floridness, the maid again dashes to the 
reserve, finally returning with a globe of fish, 
which, in the endeavor to carry steadily while 
descending the steps, imparts a cross-eyed effect 
to her beauty, already unprepossessing by any 
light. An angular being, with grisly ringlets, and 
wraps beyond enumeration, brings up the rear; 
she has a venomous-looking sunshade, with which 
she pokes at the steed, exclaiming, “I hope yer 
hoss ain’t likely to run away, young man!”” Some 
delay occurs in consequence of the lady insisting 
upon her maid bearing the aquarium upon one 
knee, the aviary upon the other, and the cat be- 
tween the two. <A lounger drawn to the spot of- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


fers to carry the entire cargo for sixpence, but 
the lady implores the cabman to drive on to 
Charing Cross. As the cavalcade departs, one— 
two—three—four—rivE! Why, we are getting 
right mto the day of this fragrant and fresh 
autumnal morn! The Garden hostelries are open 
or opening, and those of the early business per- 
suasion are in full draw, a motley crew, ranging 
from salesmen to water-cress girls, being crowded 
at the bars. Cabs in abundance rush up with 
those for the morning trains or those for the ear- 
ly market, which at this time is open and erowd- 
ed; and, judging by the noise and shouting, the 
business done should be something considerable, 
and so it is, as all the world knows. It is one 
of the most sweet and glowing places of business ! 
The stalls of Damascus and high places of Bag- 
dad bear no brighter show of color; all the bazars 
of commerce in lands away Kast, famed over the 
breadth of the universe for splendor, boast no 
more gorgeous array of color. One should come 
hither, were it not for the commotion, and read 
Canticles, or Tennyson, or any other lovely na- 
ture-lines that cease of poem-utterance only where 
the tenderer spiritual light beats upon the stanzas. 

Not a quarter of an hour since and all this 
area was deserted, and now a legion flocks Long- 
acre way, so varied, we well may term it cosmo- 
politan. Every thingis here. Italian mice boys, 
and they of the plastic art, from old Roman 
courts more dingy and more wretched even than 
our London ways, where the swart-skinned most 
do congregate; here come fellows of the sunny 
land, with glossy curls and eyes with stiletto glit- 
ter; lazy outcasts of the workshops of Cremona, 
hawking curiously carven bouquet-holders; and 
slight, lithe-handed men of Venice, with models 
of the Rialto forming vases for colored grasses. 
Strong-limbed peasants of Loretto, with fragments 
of the holy house transported thither from Naza- 
reth by the angels, relics disposed of to the faith- 
ful about Hatton Garden, London Wall, and other 
savory districts; these and many of the Latin, 
rough as when of days ere Attila and his Huns 
chased their hill-sides. Here also are squat sam- 
ples of the Teutonic, old grisly fellows who ran 
the Hainault woods in boyhood, and plucked 
daffodil leaves for their sweethearts in the fields 
of beautiful Brabant; and they are here this 
morning with their threescore and ten epochs 
of trouble, writ in wrinkles plain as the rings on 
tree trunks, selling wind-mills and weather- 
houses, and dreaming this great square, with its 
mixed crowd and commotion, its ancient work of 
builder’s hands, and Charles Fowler’s splendid 
market-house, is the old Square of Antwerp, 
where they barged up the Scheldt to buy posies 
on their wedding morn. French are here, with 
curious plants and still more curious terra cotta ; 
some with last night’s newspapers; one with a 
tray of photographs, where the actresses are at 
high jinks with staid republicans, and the Pope 
lies face to face with the last brazen débutante of 
the Scarlet Letter. Here hails one of Picardy, 


with pine contrivances all feathery with fern; 


there a handsome lad of the Haute Sadne, with 
a peddler’s wallet and jewelry, old filigree work 
and Florentine craft, or imitation.” Right away 
by the entrance to the Arcade’ stands a red- 
capped Turk, with a tray of scented pink and 
yellow packets. He has in his day stalked the 
Balkan with the most fearless sportsmen of the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Servian range; now he has come to tramping 
London with odd parcels of fragrance, turning up 
in Covent Garden at 5.45 a.M., and in Bayswater 
at the corresponding hour in the evening. And 
yonder is an Arab with rich-hued scarfs woven 
in threads of gold. Plenty of Irish about the 
market—few Scotch; but of our countrymen, the 
English, the procession is characteristic to a de- 
gree. Take, for instance, the old man sitting on 
the up-turned baskets. Already he has cleared, 
and now sits down, sharp, to drink the can of tea 
his granddaughter doubtless is preparing, for he 
must get back to his cottage, or shop with a bit 
of land. ‘Not far removed from whom, notice 
the well-dressed man with the ebony cane, a gen- 
tleman with a taste for roses; not in the least 
prejudiced, but deeming every thing else that 
grows a mistake. He has a charming bower 
near Fulham, where he cultivates tea-scented 
china splendor of deep, rich yellow, or creamy 
white shaded with salmon; he fills his lozenge- 
beds with moss-covered triumphs, carmine, all a 
velvet glow, and lake, almost a black. He pats 
these on the head, and talks to them like chil- 
dren, and when people visit his house, rubs his 
hands proudly while standing on the hearth-rug, 
and says, assuringly, “ You'll come and look at 
my roses?” And they go with alacrity, knowing 
as much about the roses as do the sticks the lat- 
ter are wedded to. He has a Bourbon of a fiery 
crimson the Horticultural Society would assassi- 
nate him fer; anda white queenly bloom he calls 
the Jnpératiice Hugénie, of which the people next 
door preserve the petals among old letters, and 
put temptihg vases on the window-sill, in the 
hope that he may occasionally present a specimen 
or two with his compliments. He is artistic, too, 
in the arrangement of the flowers about his 
rooms; places dense purple Provence bloom in 
snowy vases, and dazzling white noisettes in black 
stone classic cups, of a school when the Sharon 
alone decked the tables of porphyry. 

The old lady in mourning by those crosses and 
wreathes of immortelle is often seen at the Gar- 
den, but never buys any thing else. Her brave 
son, stricken young, bonnie and winsome, loved 
_ these; she decks his portrait with their gentle 
bloom. The aged have dreams to which the heart, 
as it grows a degree colder with each silver hair, 
clings with long love; and she rises with the best, 
and comes here before work, being only a poor 
housekeeper in chambers, and timorous every day 
lest she should be told to go for her slowness. 
But now she is off; for there goes one—two— 
three—four—five—stx. How time flies! Ob- 
serve the pale, thoughtful-looking gentleman who 
seems to be buying up all the market. He is a 
great physician—so great he strengthens life 
among the poor, and when the day comes for fee 
and recompense, mysteriously forgets many such 
little services. Those flowers will be carried hence 
by his servant (the carriage waits in Tavistock 
Street), and taken to wan, invalid, flower-loving 
ones, to whom they will come as angels’ messages. 
The cross old gentleman poking into every thing 
with his stick, as though trying consistency of 
mould, has one weak point, one hobby for which 
every thing else may be neglected, and that—his 
garden: round this he has phenomenal palings, 
and a gate of medieval cast, a gardener specially 
retained to keep off little boys and slugs, labels 
on his shrubs which he illuminates in classic char- 


99 


acters, and an old man whom he employs to walk 
round his trees with a lantern during the night. 
He knows the exact age of the entire family, hav- 
ing bought them all himself, in the Garden; he 
has the best things, out Clapton way, to be found 
under name of box and bay, sumach and syca- 
more, acacia and almond, escallonia and euony- 
mus, hawthorn and holly, magnolia and myrtle, 
olive and oleander, laurel and lilac; while his 
rhododendrons, azaleas, and kalmias are famed 
the suburb over. 

The middle-aged man there is on hunt for the 
most choice bouquet of the morning—we will not 
inquire for whom. Here is a gentleman’s gentle- 
man ordering cut bloom for the table. There, a 
fashionable artiste in modes, whose salon West is - 
always elegant with flowers, and gilded furniture 
hired in Southampton Row. There, we see a retail 
dealer in rockeries and ferneries ; he also deals in 
aviaries and aquaria, window-screens, floral fend- 
ers, and other ornamental luxuries. And now 
observe for a moment the lady and her maid se- 
lecting the rustic épergne. She is very beautiful, 
and fastidious; the contrivance must be altered 
to her taste; this coil of wood twined the reverse 
way, that gilded branch and chain removed for 
the plume of maiden-hair fern. The lady is an 
eminent novelist, with a house like a fairy bower, 
and the sovereignty of an empress. That stout, 
white-whiskered man has made a fortune on these 
flags; he is a wire-merchant; has cordoned the 
gardens, trellised the lawns, and wired the walls 
of half the noble land-owners in England, The 
frumpy old lady in spotted alpaca, and a lap full 
of variegated bulbs, is a general grower of table. 
requisites of the plainer sort. When the old man, 
her husband, died, there was little to leave save 
the onion reaches. People thought, out his way, 
there’d have been a tidy purse of yellow gold. 
But no; somehow, there was garden, and that 
alone. The old lady took it philosophically, and 
planted celery, sprouts, broccoli, beet, marrow, 
kale, and such like growth; and they thrived to- 
gether. She is at her post every morning ; drives 
up in that light cart standing third in the line, a 
journey from beyond Stratford a quarter of a 
league. The brisk buyer of flower seeds is a 
tradesman, with two strong loves: one for his 
family—a small brood nurseryward ; and the oth- 
er for his garden—above their heads, being on 
the roof, like many a tradesman’s garden in Lon- 
don, where marigold on the leads and mushroom 
in the cellar form the antipodes of cultivation. 

Thus the study of the genus homo in Covent 
Garden is as diversified as a pageant of nations. 
Lena, ensconced in one of the recesses, had seen 
it all, save once or twice in the earlier hours, when 
she had dozed the time away. 

As daylight approached, and the bustle we 
have pictured continued, the scene caught her fan- 
cy; she walked from side to side with quick, ob- 
servant eyes, taking in each feature and scanning 
all who crossed the market area, hoping to see 
her friend. She might have waited about, look- 
ing for him in the streets, but she had a present- 
iment some central position, like that where she 
had taken her station, would be the best. Sir 
Dickson, upon calling for her at the hotel, and 
discovering her absence, might suppose there was 
some good cause; would, no doubt, remember 
she was uninformed of his address; and would 
think, perhaps, she had wandered to this place, | 


| 


100 


and there was waiting his knightly attendance. 
This looked feasible; so she decided to remain 
there for some time longer, and watch these good 
people at their work—perhaps learn more than 
ever before in her life! Each hour there was a 
change in those frequenting the market; each 
hour some new slide in this phantasmagoria of 
London life. 
—— 


CHAPTER XXXI. 
FOR FRIEND, COMPANION, AND SISTER. 


Lena pondered much whether St. Aubyn had 
ever seen this place, or passed a night here. What 
wonders she would have to narrate! Why, she 
would return with sufficient story for all the win- 
ter through. She remembered Mrs. Brandon had 
spoken of the bouquets to be seen in Covent Gar- 
den, but she had not met with any of those choice 
arrangements thus far. 

Church bells are heard going for morning serv- 
ice, and soon afterward sEveN falls from the 
tower of the church near by. Roman Catholic 
sisters enter, purchase a few white flowers, and 
move silently away. 

Lena would follow the direction of the bells she 
had heard, and enter the place of devotion, but 
that she fears Sir Dickson Cheffinger may come 
and go, and the one chance be lost of recovering 
her friend. She had no very clear notion of the 
time it would take her to return, but she intend- 
ed to set forth upon the journey homeward soon 
after the meridian of the day. And she would 
take back such splendid flowers for him, to be laid 
upon his dressing-table—a peace-offering and love- 
offering; and she taxed her brain to think of all 
the pretty schemes she could, likely to charm her 
kingly poet-guardian, whom she now, indeed, felt 
she loved as never before. And she resolved, so 
resolutely, never to vex and grieve him again; 
crying a few minutes when she remembered how 
often she had done so. Lena gave but little time 
to breakfast, snatching it hastily in the most gen- 
teel of the coffee-houses, and then returning to 
her watch. 

Meanwhile shops are opening, and the theatric- 
al warehouses disclose the curious contents of 
their windows. Here you may play at nine-pins 
with the ages; learn more of the nations in five 
minutes than you have learned in a life; take a 
bird’s-eye view of history; be introduced to all 
the celebrities of biography; and encounter such 
gentry of diablerte as you would not dabble again 
with, in the occult, this side of the grave. Enter 
this hotel; the magnificent clock upon the mantel 
of the salle chimes EIGHT as we cross the thresh- 
old; an irritable old gentleman is seated before 
some cutlets, and appears apprehensive of a for- 
cible removal of the same. There is a sense of 
enjoyment beneath this hospitable roof, and in- 
voluntarily we think of those whom never a roof 
covers, save such as is afforded by the Garden. 

A rubicund and genial country gentleman en- 
ters, and seats himself opposite to him of the cut- 
lets—to the manifest annoyance of the latter. 

“Fine morning!” he pleasantly remarks. 

“Don’t know! Hav’n’t been out! just down!” 
and he dashes the Worcestershire sauce about 
recklessly. 

“Seen the paper this morning ?” the genial one 
ventures to ask. ‘‘ Any news ?” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Lies, you mean—don’t read the papers, got 
something else to do!” 

“What is your opinion of the Session ?” 

“‘Didn’t know there was one. Don’t have opin- 
ions. I’m facts, Sir, dry and solid, pounds, hun- 
dred-weights — gallons — skins—dickers — bush- 
els; but facts, Sir, always.” 

Extraordinary individual this; but in spite of 
his grimness the other seems amused. The apart- 
ment is fairly filled; few ladies in comparison to 
the attendance of the more hungry sex. A waiter 
at the door holds it open with great deference, a 
trail as of silk is heard, then the patter of little 
feet, and a musical voice speaking endearingly to 
children, and the doorway frames a picture, fair 
as that of the Goddess 6f Morning in the great 
gallery of the Adriatic; a lady of calm, sweet 
beauty enters, holding by either hand a pretty 
boy and girl; she walks the extent of the salle 
majestic as an empress, seemingly unconscious 
all eyes are turned upon her, her own being bent 
upon her children. At the remote extremity of 
the room a white-haired elderly gentleman, in 
faultless morning costume, rises to meet her, 
shakes hands, kisses the girl, lifts the boy on his 
knee; and the lady, with the same quiet grace, 
takes a seat opposite her friend. The saturnine 
gentleman of the Facts watches from beneath his 
shaggy brows the proceedings described. 

“ Very elegant!” suggests his neighbor. 

“Bah! Take striplings in, not me. Don’t be- 
lieve in women.” 

Now considering neither of the gentlemen could 
very well be classed under the highly necessary 
sample of human kind he designated striplings, 
the point was lost; he would have added some- 
thing more, but it was not to be; for, as it hap- 
pened, an individual was leaving at that moment, 
to whom one of the attendants was handing a 
hat and umbrella; whereat Mr. Cutlet started up, 
feverishly excited, and made for the umbrella 
viciously. 

“ Beg pardon—my umbrella, I think!” Prov- 
ing otherwise, however, he kindly trotted back to 
his seat with the characteristic and sweet criti- 
cism, 

“Fellow looked so like a rogue, thought to be 
sure he’d made a mistake.” 

The genial gentleman pretended to be ab- 
sorbed in looking at the valuable prints upon the 
dingy gold and brown splendor of the wails, at 
the theatrical and operatic portraits, at the rich 
but well-worn carpet, and tastefully painted but 
smoke-discolored ceiling, when a paw fell heavily 
on his arm, and— 

“So you are still looking at that woman !” 

“ Beg pardon ?” 

“Seems to have taken your fancy, as she has 
the other old boy’s! Fools! Fools!” 

This being extremely rude, he preserved a dig- 
nified but wounded silence. 

“‘She’s only one of over-the-way lot!” the oth- 
er continued, pointing to the Opera-house, with 
an energy that nearly drove his forefinger through 
his neighbor’s right eye. 

Then he dropped the mustard goblet into the 
cruet vacuum with a dull electro thud, eloquent 
and decisive, and rang for his bill (he called it a 
statement), and this was brought to him upon a 
silver salver, the attendant looking curiously sus- 
picious meantime: that poor man had already been 
tried to excess. Now the genius of the office had 


-- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


made a slight mistake, in fact had imagined the 
two gentlemen one firm, and placed the repast of 
both upon the old gentleman’s slip, a catastrophe 
that produced voleanic symptoms ; for, rising in- 
flammably, and doing auctioneer business with 
the carving-knife on the table, he denounced that 
wretched retainer with the outraged vehemence 
of a Rienzi. The genial gentleman ultimately 
calmed the storm by settling his share of the 
small amount. 

But to return to the Garden, now bathed in the 
flood of sunshine, looking quite another place; 
all the buildings, so gray and gloomy in the night, 
have caught shade and expression, and those tones 
the Flemish painters loved. Like an arras of 
gold the sun lies spread upon the walls; the win- 
dows gleam a retinue of burnished shields; and 
here and there an antique chimney gable comes 
into view, lending the harmony of an old-world 
town. The flowers and the shrubs glow with fresh 
sweet hues, and look as though they had bloom- 
ed specially to be admired, so resplendent do they 
appear, and so coquettishly enfold their hidden 
charms. All through London there is fragrance 
which the sun has drawn of these, and it is as in- 
cense laid upon the altar of the City. Hard-lined 
faces, and features writ with reminiscence of pain, 
catch the sun-gleams, and the reminder of their 
dear old country ways; and smiles curl upon wan 
lips, jewel-like upon the days that are dead. And 
as the pleasing and animated scene is atits height, 
one—two—ninE, clangs forth to call the sluggard 
exquisites of Western chambers to emerge into 
the sunshine and the world’s fair of flowers. 

A small voice invites a by-stander to have his 
boots blacked. Yes. He is not partial to the 
curb, but stands, pelican-like, a while, for he looks 
rather disreputable after a long pilgrimage, and 
in this japanned age the individual with unpolish- 
ed leather is very much of a pariah. He addresses 
the impromptu valet, who scratches at a spat of 
London mud with a sort of affection, as though 
almost irreverent to remove it, and looks up with 
sloe-like eyes all the rough City life can not rob 
of their beauty. Terribly owt7é, to see beauty in 
the eyes of a shoe-black! 

“Do you find the Covent Garden beat pretty 
profitable, my boy ?” 

“Like every other, varies, Sir.” 

“What do you average a day ?” 

“Tt’s more when the big house is full; the 
chorus gents stop for a shine going in to r’hearse.”’ 
Caleulation. 

“Still you find the people who come to the 
market good customers ?”’ 

He shakes his head contemptuously, or discon- 
solately, it is difficult to tell which. 

“The gentlefolks has theirn done afore coming, 
and the dealers don’t have ’em blacked at all.” 

Judging from some of the domains we have 
seen, and pursued the gentle rabbit over, it would 
_ be of little avail: our glorious soil possessing, 

among its other virtues, that of sincere attach- 
ment. The public, meantime, gazes upon the cer- 
emony with the admirable curiosity customarily 
bestowed upon those undergoing ordeal by shoe- 
blacking ; the English people have an objection 
to any enlightened fellow-creature standing upon 
one leg if he has two to stand upon, and evident- 
ly regard the institution as a revival in modifica- 
tion of the classical pillory. 

A woman with a brood of half-clad young, sing- 


Philosophy. 


101 


eth for bread ; he has no change, or he would as- 
sist that woman ; the stereotyped three half-pence 
in his pocket, he feels, belongs to the urchin at 
his feet: labor hath its dues. But then the wom- 
an singeth ; yes, but he has not. engaged the vo- 
calist, and he has the urchin. Covent Garden 
ethics. It is a very odd thing, whenever we are 
most disposed to help, we never have any change. 

The polishing over, he goes on his way rumi- 
nating, and turning sharp, discovers the urchin 
bestowing one of his coins upon the woman. 
Phenomenon. 

But then the London poor are all phenomenon. 
Did we not last week see a stern man of the al- 
leys knock down another in a tavern brawl, and 
then in turn watch a long night-time beside the 
straw of a sick beggar-girl? Those clad in purple 
and fine linen may learn of these the sweet union: 
sympathy, compassion, charity. 

By this there are many well-dressed folk about 
the Garden, and a sprinkling of those whose lines 
have fallen among silver spoons and carriages. 
These are intent on rich purchases for the con- 
servatory or dining table, or bowquets for the even- 
ing, and crests of blossom for the vases, in choice 
chambers where all the walls are a gleam of mir- 
rored luxury. 

And there are others treading the marketway 
with quick business-like step toward their offices 
and warehouses; clerks whose only joy is some 
flower pressed between pages of the ledger, on 
which they look when all a-weary of the great 
grim City with its grinding routine; merchants’ 
men from the dark and narrow streets and lanes 
where baled products rear to the smoke height, 
men who have some sacred niche, corner, shelf, 
drawer, ledge, or even cranny between the bales, 
where they hide the loved sowvenirs of morning 
walks that whisper of the youth of the sky that 
is blue, the air that is fresh, the colors that shame 
all their dyes, and of the holidays coming with 
the fall of the year. 

And there are pale girls here, neatly dressed, 
and wearing all the appearance of genteel though - 
poor condition ; they hurriedly, timidly pass the 
tiers of bloom, with great longing in eyes whose . 
lustre has died under pressure of work and wea- 
riness. 

And children come, on their way to school, and 
drink in visions of field and meadow splendor, of 
which they have read in books alone ; visions that 
last them all the morning within the dull white- 
washed walls. 

And the governess fresh from some country 
vicarage, she comes here with her tiresome train 
for the reminder by that sweet, faint perfume. 

So they pass, each face bringing its own story, 
each new player upon this wonderful stage a life 
study of absorbing interest; and TEN is heard 
quivering on the air, and the broad glare, which 
has banished all our Rembrandtism, ushers fresh 
crowds into the thronged mart until character be- 
comes almost too numerous for specimen, and the 
space is motley.as a patchwork quilt. 

Take the central arcade alone for study, and 
here will be found almost every class and type, 
leaving out the vendors altogether ; from the nerv- 
ous gentleman who is always knocking over the 
jellies, to the gentleman whose province it is to 
go about treading upon corns, and the gentleman 
who gets into fearful states of excitement, and 
passes a life in tripping over cushions. Of course 


102 


all these are passionate admirers of flowers, wear 
them in their button-holes, present them to their 
lady friends, have no objection, in fact, to go bot- 
anizing, but upon such expeditions they tumble 
into sore straits. And there is the inevitable 
being who knows every thing—there is positively 
nothing upon earth he does not know; he dis- 
courses largely, giving one the pedigree of every 
bulb and the dam of every fruit. Then we re- 
mark the little old gentleman who keeps twiddling 
a pocket-handkerchief, and who has so polished 
at his nose the stump alone remaineth; he turns 
up every where, a nuisance to every body; in 
early days he saw an experimentalist at a Me- 
chanics’ Institution do something with a pocket- 
handkerchief, and it was so startling—he having 
lent the handkerchief—it took violent effect upon 
his mind. And the stout lady is here whose hus- 
band, she now tells people, helped to found the 
British Museum, to which he bequeathed a case 
of copper-colored beetles. She was much put out 
by that circumstance, not that she wanted the 
beetles—which she was always afraid of—but that 
she begrudged the case; she thought they might 
have been sent to the authorities in a pickle jar, 
or some other convenient utensil. The showy 
conyYersationalists are here; an attendant couple 
whom people invite upon the same principle as 
they do the lady who plays brilliantly upon the 
piano, and pays for her,supper in half a score of 
bars. And the lank pale man whose craze is 
chipping about with a small hammer, as though 
searching for the original rib. And the naturalist 
who persists in talking about the carnivora until 
nervous spinsters creep again. And the gentle- 
man with a library, which he figuratively calls his 
parliament of thought, and which he has collected 
on the cheap, from old book-stalls, in dusk hours. 
The young man who is connected with an associ- 
ation, and who glides through, as afraid of being 
seen or suspected of vanity; and the philanthro- 
pist who commenced regenerating the race half a 
century since, and who, finding the soil unfruit- 
ful, has now taken to vegetables. And there are 
the distinguished people one meets at the horti- 
_cultural shows and garden parties of grandees, 
who hold shares, and delight to be recognized as 
“Fellows” of something. And the charming for- 
eign lady with the bend of an empress, and a toilet 
that would have become any of the smaller courts ; 
she is spoken of rather vaguely as the Marchion- 
ess, is known to have a passion for billiards, 
eau de Cologne, and dozens of gray kid, and is gen- 
erally a person highly effective ata distance. And 
a country mayor with keen floral tastes and faint 
odor of candles, and also a doctor of divinity, with 
queer ideas upon the celibacy question. 

We have been told that one of the leading co- 
medians has caught his most successful eccen- 
tricities of study in this place; that it is a favor- 
ite resort and saunter of the profession is well 
known, and few faces are more familiar to the 
enviable arrangers of the choice bowguets which 
are a feature behind the windows. 

We observe that certain of the company, under 
pretense of turning back to look at the stalls, are 
in reality watching that graceful lady in the 
French morning toilet of striped bateste, worn 
with the elegance and fashioned with the care of 
a brocaded satin robe. It is the heroine of a fa- 
mous divorce case that caused a sensation some 
timeago. With exception ofa worn and troubled 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


expression all the cunning of the toilet can not. 
erase, there is no apparent change from the dressy 
and distinguished grande dame of the London 
season of her days of triumph; yet she has been 
subjected to no ordinary ordeal, even of the 
courts. The boy beside her is her only son, pos- 
sessing the beauty and intelligence of a race 
famed for both. She has fought in public ways 
before the rabble for those eleven years of love 
and music, has stood tongue-tied, a gazing-stock 
for London mobs ; has queened it lonely and firm- 
ly under all the invective of slander, and has 
made content with one small suite of rooms, one 
careful tire-woman, one love of all the world— 
her treasure whom it came so near to losing; and 
she can bear all for this, even though friends and 
fortune have fled, and this place of flowers looks 
strangely sad. She notices none, looks steadily 
to its end, or far in her boy’s deep eyes, reflect- 
ing fairest blues of the array. She comes to 
please him, and walks the promenade, perhaps 
seeing none; and yet, sometimes flushing, when 
the boy’s eyes wander off to one or other of the 
lovely children, to the tumbled locks of some fairy 
in high places—blown shafts of sunshine that 
take his admiration—and thinking of the future, 
she saddens deeper still; but then remembers it 
is spring-time, season of buds with him, though 
autumn in the world, and takes his hand tender- 
ly as she would take a cluster of lilies, knowing 
spring glides on to summer with its blossoms, 
and summer to the grave and settled splendor of 
the autumn, when love returns to its parent, if 
bloomless, magnificent, with the last fruits and 
the best fruits of its year. 

They are not all Londoners here this morning. 
Covent Garden is one of the favorite walks of 
our country friends, who enjoy the show as much 
as if they had no heavily fragrant slips of flower- 
ing land encompassing their dwelling, and as 
though they had not journeyed through flecked 
meadows and between hills starred with the va- 
grant blossoms. By road or rail the journey is 
flower-strewn; leaves may be browning; moss 
taking on the faint expression of much. color; 
ferns be drab-feathers in the undergrowth; and 
brush-wood and hedge-row a tangle of points, 
awaiting the call to pierce through and to burst 
to a lace-work of dazzling hue; but the autumn 
flowers are every where—the poor man’s flowers, 
gypsy child’s flowers, that come without setting, 
blown by contrary winds, beaten upon by broad 
waters, borne by winged messengers from waste 
woodland aisles, caught on the thick wool of 
driven flocks, and floated by tiny rivulets to slop- 
ing haunts of the kingfisher. And the mind of 
the girl whose fortunes we follow turns to the 
flowery ways by which she has come this long 
distance from her home; turns to the inclosed 
garden, that wilderness upon the steep summit 
of the cliff, where trees grow thick as in African 
jungles, where the birds come to the crumbs she 
scatters, and conies troop to her feet. She has 


| tired of this ever-changing scene already; tired 


of the city she had so longed to see; it seemed 
useless waiting any longer for the coming of that 
poor gentleman, who might even at that moment 
be engaged upon the work which had taken such 
fixed hold upon his mind; she would go from this 
market, go from this city, to where flowers did 
really grow by the roadside, where the simple 
cotter’s wife would make her more welcome than 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


she could possibly feel alone in this vast metrop- 
olis. No one could love flowers more truly and 
more fondly than herself, and she could spend 
all day among these; but the day was far ad- 
vanced, and she could not tell what its hours 
might hold in store. She could not face one of 
those huge bewildering railway stations; she 
would rather walk long miles upon the homeward 
road, until some small place was reached, where 
trains stop to take up passengers, and where the 
officers upon the platform find time to say a civil 
word, and take a little trouble in helping the 
helpless. It was this the ewe lamb said to her- 
self midst of all the bustle and confusion, setting 
forth with a brave little heart, and the character- 
istic determination Mrs. Brandon delighted to call 
by the name of obstinacy. 

She must ask the way, and to somewhere; and 
it seemed the most reasonable thing to ask for 
the road leading to that last town of importance 
she had noticed upon the journey. She remem- 
bered it was called St. Albans, and, turning to a 
market-gardener standing near by, she asked if 
he would kindly tell her the way. He looked 
compassionately at the questioner, jumping to 
conclusions instantaneously, as is the custom. 

“Going to service mayhap, and got to walk! 
Well, it’s a goodish bit o’ ground to cover, and 
I'd advise ye to jump up into the carrier’s wan, 
my dear.” 

“No, thank you,” thought Lena, “I’ve had 
enough of that sort of travelling ; »” then she said, 
aloud, to her informant, “‘Can not I ride some 
distance—at all events through London ?” 

“To be sure ye can, in one o’ them cabs ; 
I hail one for ye?” 

“T shall think it very kind of you.” 

The man did so willingly enough, and our trav- 
eller, blushing finely at her temerity, was soon 
rushing through London by another, and, as she 
thought, a pleasanter mode of journeying. 

Lena left it very much in the driver’s hands 
where to set her down. She took it as a natural 
consequence that the train from Yorkshire, hav- 
ing passed through St. Alban’s, would return the 
same way, and felt proportionately nearer home; 
and when, some distance from London, she com- 
menced walking, it was with a delightful sense 
of freedom and liberty. No crowds were here to 
frighten her, no maze of bricked-in streets to be- 
wilder until her head ached; no thousand-and- 
one things to look at all at once; the broad clean 
road was before her, and a sky blue and promis- 
ing as that of Hesperia. Her cheeks flushed 
with the pleasure of the walk, with the resolution 
to be so good upon return; the image of St. Aubyn 
seemed to make the distance as nothing, and the 
miles disappeared as before the leaping of the 
antelope. But all this created the most enjoyable 
appetite Lena St. Aubyn could remember, and 
she began to look eagerly for some hostelry or 
cottage likely to contain the requisites for dining. 
With: the exception of here and there a villa res- 
idence, however, nothing of the kind was to be 
seen, and to approach one of these with a delib- 
erate admission of hunger was out of the ques- 
tion. She thought it just possible some inn 
might be hiding its modest sign right or left of 
the main road, and seeing a boy closing the gate 
of a turning into a lane, she called to him, with a 
voice half bold, half trembling. The boy looked 
up, leaning with a sort of languid grace upon the 


shall 


103 


upmost bar; then Lena was thrilled by the eyes 
that met her own, by the striking face with its 
beautiful Bohemianism and tender melancholy ; 
and, moved to address him further, she timidly 
begged pardon for her rudeness, and was but 
about asking, would he tell her, where—where. 
She really could not confess to that splendid boy 
it was merely a case of dinner, for the desire had 
vanished ; she could only think of that haunting 
face before her. And the other was as strange- 
ly moved. Here was the being shaped of dreams 
and shreds of poesy, this the face ideal and shad- 
owy, and longed for all life through—the face for 
friend, for companion, and for sister. 

And “Walter Gordon” opened the gate with 
an inviting movement, reassuring, and very win- 
ning, and said, 

“The house of my friend is here; I am sure 
you are welcome to sit down and rest. I have 
known what it is to be tired and faint myself.” 

Then Lena looked at him more closely, while 
gratefully following, and thought how like he 
was to the description Sir Dickson had given of 
the boy for whom he was searching. 


ee ee 


CHAPTER XXXII. 
DELICATE CRITICISM. 


A CHARACTERISTIC group, consisting of several 
important members of ‘society, was assembled 
round the tea-board of the hospitable Charlotte 
Caddie, Spinster. 

Miss Caddie’s papa had been a merchant in tea- 
boards, trinket-chests, card-trays, screens, and the 
other things supposed to be imported from that in- 
teresting land Japan, inclusive of the fascinating- 
featured dolls; and the merchant bequeathed the 
wealth, realized after some years at it, to his daugh- 
ter, a somewhat gaunt personage of sharp features 
and keen little eyes that bespoke business tact. 

The gaunt but grateful Lottie’s residence was 
her own property. That residence was very com- 
fortably furnished; there was a large chest full 
of linen, not yet marked, and a basket full of sil- 
ver, not yet engraved, at least it was hinted so, 
indirectly, now and then. 

Miss Caddie made herself very agreeable. All 
the sweets of every where seemed massed in that 
bony frame. Miss Caddie was intensely sensible, 
would talk of science or philosophy, of religion, 
needle-work, or cooking, and was altogether an 
eminently practical person, a small eater, a sweet 
vocalist, and an utter stranger to the headache. 

Seated next to Miss Caddie was her bosom- 
friend, Kitty Ticklewich, Spinster. 

Miss Ticklewich, some years older than her 
friend, presented a more playful surface to society, 
and assumed a juvenile and artless winsomeness, 
seeking to woo prepossession by the guileless vi- 
vacityofhermanner. Miss Ticklewich appeared 
in black or dark green silk, in consequence of 
having sand-colored hair. The papa of Miss Kit- 
ty Ticklewich was a saddle-maker, a gentleman 
of the jocular school, with slightly horsy tenden- 
cies. He used to tell his friends he knew he was 
not a gentleman, but he felt very contented as he 
was: a sentiment so aptly expressing his charac- 
ter and principles it can not be improved upon. 
It was known the saddle-maker was very well off, 
and that Mistress Kitty was provided for; but 


104 


somehow the young lady had so caught the hue 
and flavor of the useful commodity in which the 
saddler principally dealt, that she was still Miss 
Ticklewich, and promised soto remain. And there 
was great sympathy between these bosom-friends. 

Upon the other side of Miss Caddie was another 
bosom-friend, and the bosom-friend of these two. 
This was Merino Bobbin, Spinster. 


Miss Bobbin, albeit some decades in advance of” 


the other two so far as age was concerned, plead- 
ed an ignorance of the ways of the world the oth- 
ers did not pretend to. Each progressive year 
saw Miss Bobbin more simply unconscious and 
more eager to be taught; there was a confiding 
dependence upon stronger ones, a plaintive lean- 
ing toward the robust and valiant. ‘Oh, that I 
had some one to protect me!’ was her constant 
thought, and at times, in spite of all her efforts 
to conceal it, it was forced by her emotion into 
half-timid utterance, although what she wished 
to be protected from never became plainly appar- 
ent. Miss Bobbin’s papa had been a linen-draper, 
and at that gentle trade he had contrived to amass a 
fortune, a large fortune as competition-times went, 
a cheaper mam having had the impudence to open 
under his very nose. Bobbin did not like it, for 
the establishment had been noted half a century 
for fourpenny calico; and for an upstart to ticket 
the same thing 24d. so shocked the head of the 
firm that he never rallied, but passed quietly from 
the counter and the world at the earliest oppor- 
tunity: the British tradesman ‘being constituted 
by nature to bear so much and no more. Mr. 
Bobbin was a self-made man; for, as he said, he 
made the business and the business made him; 
and after this self-made man had become a ghost, 
all the discolored mourning upon the premises 
was—in accordance with his directions—unearth- 
ed to do him honor; while, also in accordance, 
the best curtains were sent to the cleaners, and 
put back into stock, the money being of more serv- 
ice to Merino, whose unsophisticated, ingenuous 
nature would be so easily imposed upon. 

Miss Bobbin’s mamma sat beside her: Miss Bob- 
bin seldom went out to tea unaccompanied by her 
mamma, for one never knew who might call, 
and her dear girl was so unprotected! Mrs. Bob- 
bin was a lady of ample dimensions; when the 
spirit of wit was upon Mr. Bobbin he had been 
wont to call her “‘double-width.” Nobody knew 
what he meant. Nobody ever did know what he 
meant in those witty seasons; but Mr. Bobbin 
did not stop for this. He cracked his jokes and 
enjoyed them, and there was an end of it. Mrs. 
Bobbin dressed in cherry satin, in fact was un- 
speakably dressy; Miss Bobbin cultivated a more 
simple style of costume, something @ la Watteant, 
and a combination of the shepherdess and mer- 
maiden. 

With Mrs. and Miss Bobbin had come their 
friend Mrs. Lurch, of Lurch’s Tonic Ale Brew- 
ery, a rather severe person, disposed to be critical, 
and sensitive upon parochial matters. Mrs. Lurch 
kept her brougham, and this gives one the right 
to be a little stringent; they had all three come in 
the brougham, while the rest of Miss Caddie’s 
guests had to face Brighton’s dusty streets. But 
Mrs. Lurch’s weak point was undoubtedly her cap; 
this was brought, sacredly secured in a box, by 
messenger earlier in the afternoon, addressed, 
“Mrs. Lurch, kind eare of Miss Caddie; Please 
don’t shake; Glass with care; Keep dry; This 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


side up.” Mrs, Lurch’s cap was an institution. 
But one milliner in Europe could construct it—a 
court milliner Mrs. Lurch described; but this had 
effect only in so far that the artiste dwelt in a quiet 
court, not a stone’s-throw from St. Paul’s church- 
yard. However, by whomsoever and wherever, 
it was daringly sucessful, was piquant, was co- 
quettish, yet with all was matronly and becoming. 

Next to Mrs. Lurch was seated Mrs. Ebenezer 
Wriggle, wife of the great fish-sauce man, pickle 
merchant, and ketchup manufacturer, to the roy- 
al family. Mrs. Wriggle was a little lady, rath- 
er sour-looking, and given to sharp sayings, in- 
cisive and not complimentary ; and, inasmuch as 
Mr. Wriggle was an extremely disagr eeable man, 
it could not but happen that his lady should dis- 
play a slight acerbity, always being among the 
pickles, 

Mrs. Josiah Bubb, the lady to her left, was the 
wife of a silk mercer—a very different thing, 
Mrs. Bubb was careful to point out, from your 
mere ordinary draper. The shop was an estab- 
lishment, the assistants, young gentlemen—not 
young men; it was a Saturday-closing establish- 
ment; it accommodated ladies with unlimited 
credit; it procured articles not in stock through 
their agent in the city; it possessed show-rooms 
replete with every Parisian novelty; it was emi- 
nently audacious at excessive charges; and Mrs, 
Bubb carried her head very high, and thought 
very low of the Bobbins’ common, ready-money 
customers. 

Now these ladies had assembled in parliament 
for the one serious question of debating Westley 
Garland, that famous cleric having quite recently 
been the subject of wide criticism. First, he had 
the credit of saving Lady Guilmere’s life; at all 
events at a consultation-final at which her lady- 
ship’s life had been despaired of, this Minister 
had stepped in, had desired to see her ladyship, 
had passed some time by her bedside, and had 
gone down stairs giving a few simple directions, 
and then had left as gravely and quietly as he 
had entered; but her ladyship revived, and was 
in a fair way of recovery. Next the seraph-like 
young curate had vanished, and in his place an 
accomplished reader and preacher was engaged 
by the discriminating Minister. This was the 
Rev. Robert Evelyn of Torquay, and the approval 
of the congregation confirmed the wisdom of the 
choice. And lastly, the Rev. Mr. Garland had 
published a new book, and, like every work from 
his pen, it had been caught up with avidity, not- 
withstanding that it was a work of but very few 
pages, and thus expensive. 

“T call it taking advantage, you know,” cried 
Miss Ticklewich, wiping her greasy fingers unseen 
upon Miss Caddie’s best table-cloth, “charging 
seven-and-six for a book of not fifty pages; true, 
I suppose the binding to be perfection, like all 
Mr. Garland’s bindings, but it does seem to be 
too much!” 

“Perhaps it is for a charity, my love?” timidly 
proposed Miss Bobbin, shrinking petal within 
petal after the suagestion. 

“And perhaps it isn’t, or else why should he 
publish with the announcement, ‘To be had only 
of the author ?’” 

“One of his eccentric ideas; 
know he is full of eccentricity ?” 

“Well, my dear, we must certainly read the 
book, for it will never do to say we have not 


I suppose you 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


read it when its discussion is in every body’s 
mouth.” 

_ T have read it,” said Mrs. Ebenezer Wrigele, 
with sepulchral effect, and the spinsters’ heads 
craned while they asked, in a breath, 

“Yes? And what is it?” 

“Foolery, my dears, downright foolery!” And 
satisfied with this caustic review of a new work 
beyond her sphere altogether, the vindictive pic- 
kle-lady became silent. The spinsters looked at 
one another, and took a nibble at the tea-cake, 
then the lady of the brougham spoke loftily be- 
fore the respectful silence of her compeers : 

“‘T, too, have read this work, but awaited dear 
Mrs. Wrigele’ $ opinion before ’T volunteered my 
own ; and I can quite understand our friend, wor- 
shiping as she does at so different a church, 
forming a harsh opinion of this publication, which 
seems to have caused so much sensation. And I 
make all allowance for her warmth of feeling, 
notwithstanding that Mr. Lurch, being an office- 
bearer in the church, has taken one dozen copies—” 

“Four pounds ten!” murmured Miss Caddie, 
under her breath. 

“It is so charming to be in a position to lend,” 
lisped Miss Ticklewich. 

“And having made that allowance,” continued 
Mrs. Lurch, proudly, “and having given the com- 
position my close and unsectarian attention—in- 
deed I may say having devoted an hour to it that 
perhaps should have been bestowed upon our 
Dorcas or Mothers’ meeting—I think, carefully 
and kindly and honestly speaking, with due ad- 
miration of Mr. Garland’s undoubted talent— 

“Pass the muffin!’ Thus the lady in cherry 


satin, at whom the speaker looked with annihila-’ 


ting effect, concluding her preamble, 

“In spite, I say, of the writer’s acknowledged 
ability and that hold upon public attention he is 
well known to possess, I think it behooves me in 
this instance to admit the truth, and to affirm in 
all candor that the book strikes me as being ar- 
tificial, affected, florid, tricky, and as presenting a 
distorted view of history. I was shocked by a 
vein of cynicism which I consider unbecoming 
when written by a member of a Chri istian 
church—” 

“Hear! hear!” From Mrs. Wriggle, rapping 
with the handle of her knife upon the tray. 

“And I think the introduction of actresses 
and people of that class should be particularly 
avoided by the conscientious minister of religion, 
who must know there is the possibility of it go- 
ing into families where the young and impression- 
able are but too ready to yield to such pernicious 
influence.” 

Here Miss Bobbin, who was forty if a day, cov- 
ered her features with her pocket-handkerchief. 

“A little more sugar in your tea?” said Miss 
Caddie, endearingly. 

“Thank you, T will,” replied Mrs. Lurch, for it 
was Lottie’s invariable custom to commence with 
the smallest lump to be found. 

“Did I understand you, dear Mrs. Lurch, this 
book is historical ?” inquired Mrs. Bubb, who, as 
she was going out to tea on the following evening, 
wished to acquire some little knowledge of the 
theme. 

“ Partially so, ma’am; Mr. Lurch tells me, and 
he had it from ’the Rev. Mr. Webb, that the cir- 
cumstances, although never before published, are 
historically ‘correct,” 


108 


“Ts it written in the style of the late Mr. 
James, ma’am? We have the whole of his 
works.” 

““Not in the least, Mrs. Bubb !” 

“Of Mr. Ainsworth, perhaps ?” ; 

“No, ma’am; ina style peculiar to Mr. Garland » 
alone, and a style that is too poetic for my com- 
monplace understanding. But my husband alto- 
gether controverts my “judgement by saying the 
book is the most beautiful composition he has 
ever read.” 

“T should not call Mr. Lurch a competent crit- 
ic!” volunteered Mrs. Wrigele, snappishly. 

‘““And pray, ma’am, why not? But perhaps 
you would place Mr. Wrig gle first as a literary 
authority ?” 

“Well, I think neither on ’em shine at that 
sort of thing. But Ebenezer, ma’am, has been 
deacon of. the Congregational for twenty years, 
and under five ministers, three on ’em young men 
fresh from college, but clever preachers and com- 
posers, the other two, gentlemen of experience 
from larger parishes than ours. In that time, 
Ebenezer, ma’am, has acquired considerable in- 
sight into genius, and extensive acquaintance 
with ability, and he says there ain’t neither one 
nor t’other in this conception of your puffed-up 
preacher! For my part, I’ve no patience with 
the man, a-going poking about even into houses 
where our Mr. Jones has lent books and is doing 
a little good.” 

“Well, as for that,” put in Miss Ticklewich, 
who also ‘attended at the tabernacle presided over 
by the Rev. Jacob Jones, “‘ he goes into the houses 
where the Ritualists seem to have absolute con- 
trol; it doesn’t much matter what or where, he 
is always welcomed.” 

“Oh, dear me!” hissed Mrs. Wriggle, while 
Miss Merino covered her features again, “a little 
sweetness, I. fancy; so you are joining the band 
of foolish virgins! Take care, my child, take 
care! Set not your heart upon this Adonis of 
the ways of Belial. Bah!” 

“Our Kitty’s fancy is but temporarily alien- 
ated,” remarked Miss Caddie. “When we get 
Christopher Cricket settled at the High Road 
Church, we shall see what we shall see!” and the 
speaker playfully fidgeted the angle of a lump 
of sugar with the tongs, wickedly piercing the 
blushing Kitty with her keen little eyes. 

The remark was in allusion to the selection of 
Dr. Christopher Cricket for the pulpit of the 
church named, which had fallen upon hard times, 
having been many months without an appoint- 
ed minister. The people were hard to please, 
and the deacons made a point of always disagree- 
ing one with another; hence, although men of 
every shade of thought and degree of excellence 
had been invited to occupy the pulpit, for a day, 
upon the beautiful system of trial-preaching, they 
had not before this unanimously decided upon a 
divine. Their choice had now fallen upon a 
somewhat elderly yet withal gifted man, who, for 
the advantages to be derived from residence upon 
this coast, consented to accept the long-vacated 
pulpit, and in his heart of hearts designed doing 
the utmost possible good consistent with the prin- 
ciples of dissent. This gentleman, it may be fur- 
ther remarked, was unmarried, was moneyed, and 
was possessed of exceedingly pleasant manners ; 
true he was plain of feature and not striking as 
a preacher, but then these were minor items. It 


106 


was known he thought deeply, and it was believed 
his heart was good. 

Thus, what with the doctor to come, and the 
clever curate who had come, the ladies of the 
combined denominations were at no loss for tea- 
‘table gossip. 

_Few of the select little teas of Brighton were 
flavored with richer tid-bits of gossip and scandal 
than Miss Charlotte Caddie’s. Somehow she gath- 
ered and gleaned on the right hand and on the 
left, passing over no little scrap of news as un- 
worthy of notice, until she became a perfect en- 
cyclopedia of all that was past, passing, or to 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


of her friend, and which had been for some time 
in the house-agent’s hands; Miss Caddie had 
replied, “No!” rather sharply, and immediately 
looked straight at the strawberry knob ef the tea- 
pot; they knew that the Oracle was thinking; 
that if they did not speak the Oracle would; and 
there was a death-like silence. All eyes were 
bent upon that imposingly angular figure at the 
head of the table, and while each asked within 
herself, ‘Who now, I wonder?” the lips were 
seen to move, the eyes were lifted from the straw- 
berry, and seemed to dwell with infinite pathos 
upon each face saddening before that melancholy 


pass; and was valued and. esteemed accordingly. | gaze; and then, with hushed, impressive utter- 
It was not the really good teaon the real Japan | ance, the wise one said: 
“TI have been thinking, ladies, of the paucity 


tea-board, or the irresistibly winning ways, with 


- 


54 


See 


fue 


a 


““TPHERE IN THE DOORWAY STOOD A TALL, SARDONIC FORM.” 


the perpetual simper upon the withered lips, 
which seemed to run down the glossy silk and 
present an endless smile; but it was to learn 
the exquisite morsels of human naughtiness for 
which this lady appeared to go about with a bas- 
ket; and “smallest contributions thankfully re- 
ceived.” 

Thus this bureau de scandale was honored and 
its directress well beloved: as Oracle, the words 
of her lips had weight, and it was with semi-offi- 
cial reserve she deigned to enlighten the votaries 
of her temple. Now upon this evening, Miss 
Ticklewich having asked, tenderly, ‘‘ Have you let 
your house, Lottie?” referring to a small and 
prettily furnished cottage-residence, the property 


t 


of materials relative to this Mr. Garland’s past. 
Who the dickens is he? Where the dickens did 
he come from? Recommended, you will say, by 
the late Lord Guilmere, presented to the living 
by the late Earl Heronby. Both these men are 
dead, and that is not enough for me. Ladies, 
Brighton has been taken captive, and bereft of 
its senses by this disciple of polish, this criterion 
of culture, this hero in lawn—” 

“Corded silk !” ventured Mrs. Bubb, half above 
a whisper; “ Bubb procured it.” 

“Madam, the fabric is immaterial!” And 
with this reproachful corrective, uttered with 
plaintive sweetness, Miss Caddie resumed: “It 
has struck me, ladies, as not a little singular that 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


tere we have, first, Mr. Garland, next Mr. Webb, 
and now Mr. Evelyn; and we know absolutely 
nothing of any of them: ladies, we ought to know 
more! Who can acquaint us with the anteced- 
ents of the Rev. Robert Evelyn? Who can ac- 
quaint us with the antecedents of the Rev. Spen- 
cer Webb? Who can acquaint us with the 
antecedents of the Rev. Westley Garland? I 
ask, who the dickens, who ?” 

“T can!” 

There in the doorway stood a. tall, sardonic 
form, whose approach and low knock had been 
unheard for the gabble. He wore the most 
mocking cast of features either spinster had seen 
outside of dreams; he stooped a little, and held 
a hat by the palm of his hands; he had one long 
foot within the room, and he asked, with the lev- 
ity of an alligator, 

- “May I come in?” 

Miss Ticklewich emitted a stifled shriek. 

Miss Bobbin retreated behind the pocket-hand- 
kerchief. ° 

Miss Caddie bowed her classical profile until 
hidden by the urn. 

Then, with admirable presence of mind, Mrs. 
Lurch, Mrs. Bubb, and Mrs. Bobbin rose and de- 
manded the cause of the intrusion. 

“Tell us, Sir, before you enter this apartment, 
the reason of your unceremonious appearance. 
Are there no servants in the house, or are you so 
devoid of decency as not to understand that a 
chamber tenanted by ladies, and especially by 
young maiden ladies, is sacredly private, and ought 
never, under any circumstances, to be intruded 
upon ?”” 

It was Mrs. Lurch who accepted the dle of 
spokeswoman at a moment’s notice, and by im- 
plied consent of the dthers. 

- The stranger gave his long, thin leg a sinuous 
twist, similar to the serpentine figure rendered 
familiar by Mr. F. Vokes, and jerkily explained : 

“Called to see Miss Caddie—referred to her 
respecting a house I thought of hiring—servant 
very slow—knocked—didn’t hear—took liberty 
of opening door—smell of muffins too much for 
me—couldn’t speak—you were busy—ecclesias- 
tics—thought I'd answer—knowing something of 
’em. My eard—allow me!” 

He was by the table at a stride, and had laid 
the card upon the spout of the urn under the very 
eyes of the startled hostess before she had recov- 
ered herself. The mere mention of the cottage 
worked wonders; Miss Caddie looked at the card 
and read, Mr. Noel Barnard. 

“Do pray sit down!” said Miss Caddie, polite- 
ly, to her guests and to the strange gentleman. 
They did so, the gentleman sitting as near to the 
ladies who had been married as possible, 

“T am sure you will pardon the introduction 
of business into our pleasant midst; I dare say 
this gentleman will not detain us very long ?” and 
Miss Caddie looked appealingly from her friends 
to the possible tenant. 

Miss Bobbin gave a sudden scream, and there 
was great confusion. Nestling for protection close 
to her mother, she thought the gentleman had 
brought a large black dog in with him! No, he 
had not brought a large black dog in with him, 
and order was restored. Her bosom-friend, Kitty 
Ticklewich, thinking it a ruse, waxed cross, and 
remarked spitefully to Miss Caddie, “ How nerv- 
ous weare this evening! I think it’s the weather.” 


107 


| “Won't detain you two minutes—want a house 

in Brighton to run down to occasionally—my busi- 
ness is in the City—looking round, struck me that 
little place of yours might suit; want doing up, 
improved by a few flowers. Muffin getting cold, 
pray don’t stop, Pll wait; muffin—roll—yeast 
dumplings—all those sort of things, detestable 
cold !” 

‘Quite a domestic man, I declare !” whispered 
Mrs. Bobbin to Mrs, Lurch, and nudging the sen- 
sitive Merino. 

“Thank you, Sir, we had finished ! 
fer you a cup of tea?” 

“You are kind—and I am grateful; but. is 
there any green init? Never drink green—afraid 
of nervousness!” 

“‘T am sorry to say there is, Sir!” 

“Then I won’t have any, thank you; let the girl 
take the tray away, and we’ll get to business.” 

Miss Caddie rang the bell, abashed by the 
stranger’s freedom, Upon the clearance being 
made, he drew up to the table, planted his elbows 
thereon, Australian fashion, and asked, 

‘““Now then, Miss Caddie, let’s see if this di- 
minutive villa is within the means of monthly 
payment by a poor person.” 

“T want two guineas a week for it, Sir.” 

“‘ And not dear either, upon my word—and of 
course you pay the taxes ?” 

“The taxes bring it up to— 
agree to pay the taxes.” 

‘And very honorable, by the lord chancellor! 
Then we may consider it settled; I take it; and 
I do hope you’ll run in and see me-sometimes— 
old bachelor—very quiet—appreciative of such 
consideration. Beg pardon, a daddy-long-legs on 
your cap, ma’am!” This to Mrs. Lurch, who, 
turning very white, and unable or unwilling to re- 
move that fortress, sank back, gasping for deliv- 
erance from the reptile; but unfortunately the 
coterie was unanimous in its alarm at such long- 
legged things, and what the consequences would 
have been no honest chronicler dare relate, had 
not the strange gentleman taken a stride to the 
fire-place, caught the hearth-brush from its nail, 
and whisked off the annoying creature before the 
enraged lady of the brougham was aware of his 
design. 

“Nasty things, ain’t they?” To Mrs. Wriggle, 
sharply. 

“Some legs are too long for any body’s com- 
fort; they take parties where they ain’t wanted !” 
and the lady, violently annoyed, turned her chair 
round, sitting with her back to the bold and offi- 
cious stranger. 

Timorous of an upset, and well aware that no 
lady present would hesitate to speak her mind 
should occasion offer, Miss Caddie softly rose, 
extended her hand to the gentleman, and said, “I 
think we understand each other.” 

The gentleman stood up, took the hand, and 
shook it warmly over the table, said, “‘I think we 
do!” and sat down again. 

The ladies looked at one another, contempla- 
ting the expediency of retiring, when, with an air 
of confidence, the gentleman said, 

“T heard our fair hostess asking important 
questions relative to the reference, personal se- 
curity, bankers, etc., of our accomplished friend, 
the famous Minister. Now, as I had the pleas. 
ure of being at college with that young man—or 
at least he was young then—I feel in a position 


May I of- 


Well, yes, I 


108 


of acquaintance with those particulars inquired 
for, or at least with certain of them. Mind, I 
press my information upon nobody; in fact I 
have already staid too long—” 

“Oh no!” cried a chorus of seven. “Do tell 
us a little about dear Mr. Garland, whom we all 
admire and respect so very much !” 

“JT thought you did! Well, what I have to 
tell is, that he is in every way worthy the ‘much 
admiration and respect’? you bestow upon him !” 

“And is that all?” asked Miss Kitty Tickle- 
wich, sniffing like the scraggy war-horse reined 
in from a pursuit. 

“Absolutely all, dear madam; while I was at 
Oxford with him, nothing was ever seen other 
than the most exacting must revere and admire.” 
A cloud flitted across the hard face; for a mo- 
ment Noel Barnard seemed human. 

“T never knew any good thing come out of 
Oxford !” cried Mrs. Wriggle, viciously, 

“How excessively unkind, since I but just now 
said I was there.” And the stranger looked 
killingly at the war-horse, a look which imparted 
an expression so legitimately diabolic, Miss Bob- 
bin wound her forty-year-old arm through that of 
Lottie Caddie, whispering, ‘‘Isn’t he dreadful ?” 

“Hush, my sweet, how do we know that it is 
not some Member of Parliament? Iam sure he 
has the look of a statesman!” this aside in reply, 
adding, aloud, ‘“Of course our friend excepted 
present company, Mr.—Mr. Barnard.” 

“Oh, ah, yes, how good of you—defend me 
thus continuously, and what a divine creature I 
shall think you, really!’ He put up his eye- 
glass, and looked at the Japanese maiden long 
and thoughtfully. Miss Caddie, overawed, tried 
to squeeze a tear; it would not come, and there 
was a painful silence; then the silvery voice of 
Mrs. Bubb broke the spell with, ““We have. been 
discussing the merits of the new book—” 

“Garland’s Triumph of Seasons— got one in 
my pocket—capital thing!” 

All was eagerness, and “‘ May we have a glimpse 
at it?” “Do you mind our glancing at the first 
and last chapters?” “Can you tell us about it ?” 
“Will you permit us to look at it?” “How 
thoughtful to have it with you!” “We are so 
indebted!” Midst of all which the gentleman was 
slowly feeling behind at his coat pocket; when 
they had done, he calmly remarked, 

“Sorry — find I’ve omitted putting it in my 
pocket—nuisance too; what’s to be done? Step 
to the hotel and fetch it—” 

“‘Oh, pray don’t—we can get it at the library ;” 
from Mrs. Bobbin, who feared they would not 
look upon the pleasant countenance again. 

“None in the libraries, by special “request of 
the author: wants people ‘to buy ’em.” 

“Do you know it has struck me once or twice, 
this Mr. Garland is something of a miser/” a 
speculation hazarded by Miss Caddie, who had 
tried every thing else. ‘Look at the money he 
must be making, what with his church, his books, 
and the lectures! Oh, he is saving, depend 
on’t !” 

And the idea seemed to rivet the attention of 
the visitor, who, with elbows still on the table, 
placed his thumbs side by side thoughtfully, look- 
ing down absorbed by some close calculation 
while apparently following the mazy pattern of 
the table-cloth. 

“You may be sure he wouldn’t work as he 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


| does if it wasn’t to realize money ; it isn’t all love’ 


of the work.” 

“Well, I think you’re right, my dear!” said 
silvery Mrs. Bubb; “you know, living opposite 
the bank, we have rather advantageous facility 
for discovering who keeps an account, and I do 
think, now you mention it, I have seen the Rev. 
Mr. Garland in and out more than is quite con- 
sistent with a minister of the church!” 

“Oho! methinks I smell a rat! Do you smell 
a rat, Sir?” 

Asked by the amiable Mrs. Wriggle of the vis- 
itor; and he, still tracing the curl of that design- 
ing foliage, answered dryly, with a sniff, “I think 
I do, ma’am !” 

“Catch the Rev. Mr. Jones going into banks; 
or Dr. Christopher Cricket—” 

“Beg pardon, ma’am—” 

“Or Dr. Christopher Cricket, Sir, the conscien- 
tious Nonconformist minister who has accepted 
the pastorate of our leading church; would he 
set store by the dross which perisheth ? Would’ 
he fritter away his time in and out 0’ banks? I 
should like to see him ! Dr. Cricket, Sir, is a 
Christian—” 

“A Christian cricket !” put in the visitor, pleas- 
antly; whereat the lady fumed, excited and scan- 
dalized by the levity this person betrayed. 

“Well, my dear,” now ventured the just daugh- 
ter of the jocular saddle-maker, “I can not for 
my part reconcile the amassing of money with 
the good Mr. Garland does in the town and neigh- 
borhood, ay, and beyond this county altogether, 
as is well known; not alone are his benefits be- 
stowed upon charities, but also upon individuals 
nobody hears about ! pr 

“Hoity-toity! Here’s a penser Why, 
don’t you see, my child, that this is all a blind ?” 
exclaimed Mrs. Wriggle, tossing her head virtu- 
ously. 

“T don’t think taking a new place i in the coun-. 
try looks very like penurious principles!” cried 
Mrs. Lurch. ‘Mr. Webb told Mr. Lurch that Mr. 
Garland had bought an old mansion hidden 
somewhere away in the downs, which nobody 
would ever pass and nobody could ever find, be- 
cause the place is haunted, or something.” 

“Ts it the old place they call the Moated 
Grange ?” 

“The same: it is at Hawkingdean, the most: 
out-of-the-way village in the whole range of down- 
land valleys. Mr. Webb said that was why Mr. 
Garland had purchased it, that he might, when 
so inclined, be absent entirely from the noise and 
bustle of the town. Mr. Garland is not so strong 
as some people think, and sometimes, in his studi- 
ous moods, is very reserved and gloomy.” 

“This is really interesting,” muttered the vis- 
itor, intent on the pattern. 

“What, Sir?” 

“The ingenuity with which the artist has con- 
trived to extricate this leaf from the labyrinth of 
foliage. But, beg pardon, you were saying some- - 
thing about this new place of Garland’s. Is it 
far?” 

“Some few miles; nothing to see from this 
old house, save another old house, where a deep- 
er student than Mr. Garland even, lives—a_hor- 
rid old bookworm; there is also the clergyman 
of the village, white-haired, and stupid with di- 
vinity and theology ; so that our learned scholar 
will be in congenial society! That is, if the own- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


er of the Bishop’s House—Bishop Bonner having 
resided there—is disposed to be sociable, which 
is rather doubtful, for he is a queer stick.” 

After this effort Mrs. Lurch looked significant- 
ly round the room. It was all very well talking 
like a field lecturer, but darling Lottie really 
ought to bring out the sherry and biscuits ; suffi- 
cient time had elapsed since tea, and they would 
soon be going. 

“T thought there was something in the wind,” 
said Miss Caddie, with a peculiarly knowing air, 
“when I first heard of this clever Mr. Evelyn 
coming. I shouldn’t be surprised if he and Mr. 
Webb do all the evening duties between ’em. I 
wonder how the guinea per quarter seat-holders 
will like that!” 

“A sermon of Mr. Garland’s,” cried Kitty 
Ticklewich, “‘is beautiful enough to subsist upon 
for a month,” 

“Miss Ticklewich, are you a respectable Non- 
conformist ?” asked Mrs. Wriggle, severely. “ Be- 
cause, if you are, as a communicant at our church, 
I think it scandalous you. should maintain this 
prejudice in favor of our enemies.” 

“Mr, Garland is the enemy of no one—not 
even of his greatest enemy.” 

The playful surface Miss Ticklewich present- 
ed to society, and the juvenile and artless win- 
someness she assumed, disarmed reprimand and 
disabled reproach. The sand-colored hair also 
was a non-conductor, and all the scathing shafts 
of indignant anger passed off her, as she said 
this, with her most killing look, like rain-drops 
off a duck’s back. 

Miss Caddie’s new tenant rose to go; and, tak- 
ing an affecting leave of his landlady, politely sa- 
luted the others, and departed. It was the sig- 
nal preceding a general uprising for a continuation 
of the debate, while going up stairs, upon the 
quality and presentment of Mr. Noel Barnard, 
opinion being divided; and for a private word 
from Miss Caddie, delivered as the bonne bouche 
of the evening. It was— 

“ Robert Evelyn has a beautiful daughter; her 
portrait hangs in the dining-room of Evelyn’s 
new house. As I passed last evening, I saw 
through a crevice of the Venetian blind, and Mr. 
Garland stood before that picture, alone, and 
with any thing but the expression a MINISTER 
should wear upon his countenance!” 

There was great crooning, and Mrs. Wriggle 
was heard to moan, “ Belial! Belial!” 


S eeeeeen calle 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 
AT EAGLE HALL. 


Str Kiynarrp Datron was fairly settled at 
Eagle Hall, Torquay, the beautiful Devonshire 
property acquired possession of in so singular 
and so sad a manner. Perhaps no man ever en- 
tered upon fair estate with a heavier heart; for 
the thought of his old friend Lionel, and thoughts 
of Lionel’s wife and child, were ever present. Of 
course the mansion had been furnished with mag- 
nificence, and the gardens and approaches restored 
and improved, until no seat in the county pre- 
sented a more perfect exterior or interior. 

Sir Kinnaird Dalton was not young;.he did 
not go into ecstasies over his new possession, 
even though nothing fairer might be found be- 


109 


neath the sun; and even when assenting to this 
costly furnishing of the mansion, it was with the 
devout intention, could he but shake off that in- 
cubus, Noel Barnard, of restoring the whole, fur- 
nished, redecorated, and generally improved, to 
Mrs. Travers, should that unhappy and beauteous 
lady ever cross his path, _ But, alas! both Lionel’s 
widow and child had disappeared ; and, like oth- 
ers interested in their welfare, Sir Kinnaird enter- 
tained grave suspicions of foul play. He kept 
these suspicions to himself, but, privately caused 
every inquiry to be made, and spared neither 
cost nor trouble in prosecuting this investigation, 
the more arduous of transaction from the neces- 
sity for its being all unknown to the secretary. 

In addition to being a man of honor and most 
gentle breeding, Sir Kinnaird Dalton was a man 
of feeling. Few would have suspected the depth 
of tenderness underlying that insowciance and ele- 
gance of manner; and so in sympathy was he 
with his unfortunate and ill-fated friend, he would 
know no rest in that friend’s home while he re- 
mained its possessor. It was a common remark 
of his, when indolently at rest and alone, ‘‘ Never 
mind, old fellow, I will do as much for yours as 
I am sure you would have done for mine. I but 
bide the hour of their discovery.” 

At the time the baronet makes ventrée in the 
story, he was enjoying a brief respite from the 
annoying presence of his whilom secretary, that 
irr@pressible personage having private business 
elsewhere. Mr. Barnard was not ceremonious, 
but went upon these frequent missions at will, 
merely mentioning the fact of his immediate de- 
parture, sometimes not mentioning that fact at 
all, leaving it for Sir Kinnaird to learn through 
one or other of the sympathizing and devoted 
servants. These continuous flittings of the ill- 
omened bird of passage were always welcomed 
by Sir Kinnaird with as warm a feeling as the 
languor of his habitual mood would admit; really 
he tried to forget the existence of the person 
when not absolutely in his presence, and succeed- 
ed far more readily than in the case of poor Lio- 
nel, whose poet face, with its world of thought, 
heroic determination, and loftiness of soul, was 
ever before him as he had known it in the days 
at Oxford, when Beresford Travers’s son was 
king of his college. 

A circumstance had occurred the day following 
Noel Barnard’s departure which tended to inspire 
renewed confidence in the success of his investi- 
gations. A day or two before, Hammond, Sir 
Kinnaird’s valet, had entered the room where his 
master and the secretary were engaged in an un- 
usually high dispute—so violent, the man’s pres- 
ence was unnoticed until he had heard far too 
much to please either gentleman. Sir Kinnaird . 
was terribly confused. Noel Barnard, quietly 
but deeply exasperated, discharged a volley of 
censorious remarks at the man, who proceeded 
gently with his work, and retired without having 
taken any notice whatever of the imperious sec- 
retary; but after he had gone, Hammond sought 
an interview with his master, and there and then 
laid before him that conversation recorded as 
having taken place between himself and Mr. Sim- 
mons, Sir Kinnaird’s private attendant, with the 
connecting circumstances. Sir Kinnaird at once 
saw that the man, if conciliated, might be of servy- 
ice to himself; besides, he knew sufficient to be- 
come an awkward mischief-maker. He adopted 


110 . 


the wiser policy, dealt munificently with him, and 
treated him with confidence. 

“‘ You’ve behaved as the gentleman I’ve always 
found you, Sir Kinnaird; and I do hope Ill be 
able to serve you. I don’t say I haven’t a con- 
science, but I do say as people as is looking out 
for to keep a hotel mustn’t have too much! But 
this Pll add with respect, Sir Kinnaird—and not 
to mention such things in your presence, Sir— 
that whenever you want that confounded Mr. 
Noel Barnard put out of the way, I'll be proud 
and pleased to do it, if it costs the price of my 
license for the halter.” 

To this Sir Kinnaird, with mild reproval, and 
the calm, indolent sweetness characteristic of 
him, replied, 

“Barnard is a little contrary, I admit; the 
fellow bores and worries me beyond accounting 
for with my pacific temperament, but the more 
one ruffles one’s self the more one may, and it is 
horribly common getting into these disturbed 
states. I never could go in for phrenology, or 
any of those things, but it seems to me Barnard 
was born with a lot of queer organs, and if I am 
without them I would rather feel content than 
allow another fellow’s organs to irritate me. He 
reminds one of that man in the Bible whose hand 
was against every man; but imitate my example, 
Hammond, and accept it with placid resignation. 
If people would only do this with all the pests 
fretting and teasing them, what a deal lorter 
every one would live! © Pass me the rose- water, 
and then a cushion, please. You have much to 
learn; it is as essential for me to have my com- 
fort studied as my interest.” And leaning back 
luxuriously—inasmuch as luxuriousness was in- 
dependent of effort—Sir Kinnaird Dalton passed 
gently off to sleep. 

Sir Kinnaird had been not a little surprised 
and gratified to hear others were in reality en- 
gaged upon a similar quest to his own, although 
who they could be, unless employed by Beresford 
Travers, he was at a loss to imagine. 

It was the day following that of Mr. Barnard’s 
departure. Sir Kinnaird Dalton, walking up and 
down the terrace of his garden, with hands clasped 
behind, ever and anon directed an admiring 
glance beyond the rocky and thickly timbered 
domain at his feet. Devonshire was new ground 
to the baronet, and he had not yet mastered the 
sense of pleasure at its novel attractiveness. 

The giant tors that overshadowed the nestling 
town, that town with its un-English elegance and 
its prodigality of beautiful surrounding—the far 
stretch to Totness and Berry, the fanciful expanse 
away there by Dartmoor and Dartmouth, the rug- 
ged romantic coast-line, with its clefts and coves far 
- beyond Brixham and Babbicombe, the quiet, pic- 
turesque drives to Exmouth and Dawlish, the 
splendid semicircle of sea-line, the broken pano- 
rama of rocks with their nooks and glens cluster- 
ed with foliage, the crags trailing with wild flow- 
ers, and the vast sweep of greensward, of heath, 
and of fern, all presented a picture as delightful 
to the eye as it was pleasing to the fancy. 

Thus thought Sir Kinnaird Dalton; and thus 
thought two gentlemen toiling up the steep as- 
cent. 

‘Magnificent !”” cried the younger of the two, 
pausing to look around while he waited for his 
older companion, who climbed the hill with more 
difficulty, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


‘‘ Magnificent indeed, my dear Garston; but I 
wish it was on level ground.’ And Mr, Beres- 
ford Travers stopped to regain breath. 

“Then we should not enjoy the view, Sir; now, 
confess it is worth the coming for.” 

“That depends upon the “result of our visit. 
I only hope we may find the gentleman at home, 
and alone.” 

“He must make himself at home for once; 
nothing I should like better, though, than to en- 
gage in a little misunderstanding “with that ras- 
cally secretary. Now that I am upon poor old 
Lionel’s own ground I feel so excited and thrilled 
I can scarcely talk with that cool self-possession 
I know you like to see me display. To look upon 
all this fairy scene, and think that through the 
Machiavelian plots of a perjured traitor—” 

““Hush! hush! My dear boy, you are so im- 
petuous.” 

“Well, I admit it, but not in all things; it is 
only in any thing concerning Lionel’s fair fame. 
He was my friend. That means somuch with me.” 

“T know it does, my dear boy, and I thank you 
for him.” 

For some moments the old gentleman was too 
agitated to continue. An only son, Lionel had 
been deeply loved; perhaps because of this the 
wonder had been greater, the wound deeper, at 
his supposed treachery. 

As they approached the grounds of Eagle Hall, 
they saw its owner walking upon the garden ter- 
race. 

“Dalton wears well,” remarked Mr. Travers— 
“the same youthful, lustrous creature as of yore.” 

“You see he keeps himself cool and collected, 
while I am wearing out fast. Well, I suppose if 
there were no burning mountains there would be 
no pumice, and'I believe scarcely any one would 
deny virtue to that useful cinder. So that is Sir 
Kinnaird! I have not seen him before—evident- 
ly a connoisseur in dressing-gowns. Gorgeous 
affair, isn’t it? What’s he doing—smoking ?” 

“‘He does not smoke.” 

“Poor devil! Another of life’s pleasiree lost 
to him.” 

“ A matter of opinion, Sir; but here comes the 
servant; he has seen us.’ 

Sir Kinnaird had seen them, with the i incisive 
comment, 

“‘ Awful nuisance; some people found me out.” 
When, however, they drew near, he recognized 
Mr. Beresford Travers with considerable pleasure, 
augmented upon Hammond’s respectfully ap- 
proaching and informing his master that the 
younger of the two gentlemen was the person 
who had accosted him in the street. ‘ Admit 
them; a blessing Barnard happens to be away 
this morning ; send Simmons with my coat; show 
the gentlemen into the breakfast-room.” 

Sir Kinnaird reclined upon a garden seat, over- 
powered by the idea of receiving visitors thus 
early in the day. He disliked visitors at any hour ; 
but, at an early hour, wished them favoring some 
other friend. 

Simmons appeared with his master’s coat, walk- 
ing upon the grass lest the sound of his footstep 
upon the gravel should grate upon those sensi- 
tive ears. He stood silent behind the seat, hold- 
ing the garment with a care more reverent than 
servile; looking down, not to allow of a supposi- 
tion of rude or negligent gazing. He had brought 
a small glass, a clothes - brush, a flower for the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


button-hole, and a morning pocket-handkerchief 
faintly perfumed. | 

‘‘ Simmons.” 

“Sir Kinnaird.” One step forward, silently ; 
head slightl7 bowed as implying deference. 

“T would give a sovereign for a nice quiet doze 
among the mignonette, but I must exercise self- 
denial in this instance. Be at hand after it is 
over, for I shall be tremendously exhausted. 
Isn't there a tuft of hair wrong at the back here ? 
Something fidgets me.” The baronet looked in 
the glass, held in a convenient position by the at- 
tendant artist. 

“ Every thing is perfectly smooth, Sir Kinnaird ; 
but if you will permit me to fetch the cosmetic—” 

“Don’t trouble; always a draught out-of-doors ; 
worst of gardens! I never can understand how 
the insects get along so well as they do; now the 
handkerchief—thanks.” 

’ It was with curious sensations Mr. Beresford 
Travers found himself ushered into the room 
which had once been bis favorite of the suite. 
But how metamorphosed! what excess of embel- 
lishment! what lavish decoration! True, the 
house was the same, but transformed into a pal- 
ace. Herbert Garston was humming “Il Bandi- 
to” from Verdi’s Hirnani, the score of which, open 
at the piano, wooed the musician to trial of the 
instrument, when Sir Kinnaird entered and cor- 
dially shook hands with Mr. Travers. 

~ “So glad to see you; how well you are look- 
ing!” 

And then Mr. Travers introduced his friend 
Herbert. 

_ “Had the honor of meeting your mother some 
months ago at Lady Huntingtower’s.” 

Herbert bowed. 

“ But do sit down, you are tired, and it is warm ; 
even a short stroll upon the terrace has fatigued 
me.”’ 

“You seem pretty sound, Dalton; nobody in 
England looks better, or as well, I should think.” 

“Why not reduce me to that level of odium, the 
bon-vivant of the club-house? Iam afraid it is 
all very hollow, my dear Mr. Travers, for I am 
rather charged with spleen just now.” 

“What is the matter? nothing serious, I 
hope ?” 

“ Very, to me, Sir.” 

Sir Kinnaird fell back upon a lounge, the sun- 
light gleaming upon the hair swept away from the 
brow, and falling tumbled upon the coat ; the thin, 
delicate face, with its fine profile and sensitive 
quivering of the nostril, had a singularly patrician 
look, with all its fragile moulding and femininely 
clear bloom. Mr. Garston rose to draw the cur- 
tain, thinking the light too strong for the in- 
dolent baronet. 

“No, don’t, please. The sun and I are good 
friends: I am like the ephemera that bask in its 
rays, and after it has gone are colorless.” He 
seemed making good the words, lying upon his 
back, looking up at the ceiling, bathed in the 
broad golden. beam. 

“You were going, I think, to tell us what this 
serious matter is, Sir Kinnaird ? I need scarcely 
_add that any thing you now say will be received 
by us in perfect confidence.” 

“Frankly, my dear Sir, my coachman has taken 
to eating onions.” 
~ The two gentlemen burst into a fit of hearty 
laughter, of which Sir Kinnaird took no notice, 


LAg 


continuing as gravely, “And with my fine sense 
of smell, no greater catastrophe could have hap- 
pened. What is to be done? This fine sea ait 
and aroma of the country are lost to me forever, 
unless I discharge the man. And he is an old 
and valued servant. It is very embarrassing, 
very !” 

“T should remedy it,” said Mr. Garston, “by 
instructing the cook to bake some, and enjoying 
a deliberate feast of the bulb for supper. For 
my part, I admire the coachman’s taste.” 

Sir Kinnaird Dalton uttered a low moan; the 
subject was too insufferably vulgar to extend it 
by replying. He raised his head a little, looking 
at the elder of the two gentlemen. ‘To what 
am I indebted ?” 

“Well, you may not, perhaps, be aware that 
you forestalled me by purchasing this estate.” 

“T thought you ought to have bought it, if you 
did not; but, as a matter of fact, my secretary, 
aware of my prepossession in favor of this coun- 
ty, and of the sort of place I was looking out for, 
had effected the purchase before I had time to 
look round. It is a captivating place, and I could 
rest content were it not for thinking of my old 
friend Lionel. Pardon the allusion in your pres- — 
ence.” 

“We have come to you this morning to ask if 
you can throw any light upon recent events. I 
know it does not follow that you can, because 
this Mr. Barnard is now secretary to yourself, but 
you may possibly know something of the where- 
abouts of Mrs. Lionel and her child, admitting no 
foul usage has been exercised, which we, with all 
moderation, fear to have been the case. I donot 
say mysterious disappearances are impossible or 
uncommon, but it is morally—” 

“ Legally !” interposed Mr. Garston. 

“ Morally and legally impossible for a lady, es- 
pecially a lady of Mrs. Lionel’s birth and breed- 
ing, and her little girl, particularly a little girl of 
the unapproachable beauty of this child, to dis- 
appear off the face of the earth without leaving 
some indication.” 

“And that indication we are determined to 
move creation to obtain, Sir;” and, violently ex- 
cited, Mr. Garston was about resuming his expres- 
sion of opinion, when, happening to glance at Sir 
Kinnaird, he exclaimed, 

““Why, bless me, he has gone to sleep !” 

It appeared to be the case; the baronet, like 
a figure of wax, was lying with closed eyes, and 
a half-smile at hide-and-seek with the sun about 
the corners of the mouth; but no, the lips part- 
ed, and— 

“Go on, please; Iam all attention, only I am 
thinking. The speculation has wandered into an 
unpleasant region. I may or may not think as 
you do. This believe, I can throw no light upon 
the matter; of course they will turn up some 
day. I cannot think where people do get to. I 
passed a man in the Park last spring; gave me 
quite a start; thought he’d been gone long ago; 
in fact, read of his demise in the paper; and for 
a fellow to be riding about parks after that, you 
know, is a shame. Take courage; they'll turn 
up one of these days.” 

To honest Herbert Garston this looked so very 
like thoughtless, careless, and unfeeling liberty, 
he was out of all patience with it, and, bringing 
his hand down impulsively upon the table, he ex- 
claimed, 


112 


“ But that is not enough, Sir; we wish to ascer- 
tain the truth.” 

“You really must not make so much noise, or 
you will give me the headache for a month!” 
The door here opened softly, and Simmons enter- 
ed with eau de Cologne, in a tiny dish once the 
property of Louis the Magnificent. He advanced 
upon tiptoe to the side of his master, and, with a 
diminutive sponge of soft fineness, applied the re- 
storative to his master’s brow and nostrils. Sir 
Kinnaird submitted passively, with the quiet semi- 
apology : 

“Don’t take any notice, please, gentlemen ; this 
faithful fellow knows how the least agitation dis- 
turbs my nervous system.” 

Mr. Garston, impatiently taking up an album, 
looked as though he would dash for relief among 
the Parian gods and goddesses, and give them a 
taste of the muscular. 

The faithful fellow having retired, Sir Kinnaird, 
with graceful courtesy, although somewhat lan- 
guidly, begged Mr. Garston would proceed. Mr. 
Travers undertook to explain their present posi- 
tion, extenuating his friend’s impulsive feeling 
on the ground of his having been bonded with 
poor Lionel in close friendship, and by the equally 
close alliance of art and letters. 

“ At which,” cried Garston, with a frank smile, 
“T made but little progress, while Lionel outshone 
all whom I have known by the brilliance of his 
genius and the diverse nature of his attainments. 
Iwas much too eager, to study, and my gifts, such 
as they were, burned themselves out; but they 
left, I think, the perseverance, if not the patience.” 

Sir Kinnaird, leaning upon an elbow, looked 
the speaker in the face. 

‘Do you know I am charmed with your candor ; 
if I were nearer, would give you my hand. I ap- 
preciate a character of this description! Ah!” 
(sighing) “ I have never known eagerness, or gifts, 
or perseverance, or the other things you enumer- 
ate ; the only thing I can experience gratitude for 
possessing is—friendship, true to the death, ay, 
and beyond the death. Ican’t make a fuss about 
it, but there it is, and—Lionel Travers was my 
friend.” 

The earnest, calm sincerity, and unmoved pas- 
sion, came forth in the words, spoken with the 
ease and repose of perfect breeding, yet with the 
solemnity of an abiding constancy. For the mo- 
ment it scarcely seemed that luxurious, dainty 
creature of the sunbeam who had thus spoken. 

Mr. Travers, rising, thanked the baronet for 
his chivalrous allegiance. The old gentleman, last 
representative of the honored houses of Beresford 
and Travers, felt his position acutely. The silver- 
ed head, noble still, though bowed, moved Sir 
Kinnaird to supreme pity. He likewise rose and 
walked with Mr. Travers to the window. 

“Tt is good of you, Sir Kinnaird, to preserve 
your esteem for the memory of my poor boy, whose 
fair name tarnished, and integrity disputed, lives 
but in the choice regard of a very few.” 

“T don’t think so—excuse my interrupting you 
—I believe but half the fellows, and very few of 
the outside world, thought ill of Lionel. It is gen- 
erally supposed he was environed by money-lend- 
ers, as many have been before him. Remember 
when my father died I was in a precious mess 
myself, and if Huntingtowers hadn’t backed some 
bills, if should have ‘Tost my horses. I admit 
there’s awful complication about Lionel’s affairs, 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


and I always get lost over that sort of thing; but 
I shouldn’t wonder if one of these days the wind 
blew them straight.” 

“A hundred thousand seems a preposterous 
figure.” 

“It is large; I didn’t know he was embar- 
rassed.”” 

‘Nor I; and Lionel had the wrong blood in 
his veins to appeal to me or acquaint me with it; 
neither should I have assisted him had he done 
so—I was too imbittered against him at the time.” 

“Ay, there was the mistake; Lionel was too 
much of a gentleman and too tender-hearted ever 
to have wronged you in any way, and much too 
sensitive to be treated with the rigor you dis- 
played; but it is past now, and no one has the 
right to self-inflict torture by recalling any thing 
unpleasant—at least such is my creed.” 

‘How can I make reparation? I shall be so 
willing, so glad to do so; but I can not see how. 
I have tried my best to trace Ella and her child; 
I would provide for both, and thus atone in some 
degree for my blind and inhuman fault, and at 
my death Lionel’s child shall have the property.” 

“A noble atonement !”” 

‘‘ But insufficient,” answered the old gentleman, 
sadly. ‘You see it is an awkward business, or 
I would pay off the debt; but it would soon be 
known that I had done so, and while not clearing 
my son’s good name, it would impoverish the es- 
tate to line the pockets of goodness knows what 
usurers and vampires.” 

‘“No, you would have to deal only with Noel 
Barnard; he brought about the entire catastro- 
phe, and has become sole possessor of the claims.” 

“ And can not, I suppose, be compelled to sell ?” 

“No earthly power would make him do so.” 
One thing I promise you, upon my honor—dis- 
cover Mrs. Travers, and she is welcome to occupy 
this place just as it is. I will reside upon the 
Continent whenever this is agreeable. As you are 
aware, my mother is at Florence, She has often 
entreated me to share her villa; once telegraph 
me Mrs. Travers is found, and I will vacate, join- 
ing Lady Dalton as speedily as may be consistent 
with my usually sluggish movements; you know 
I am one of the unfortunate wretches who can 
not hurry.” 

“What you have offered is so nobly disinter- 
ested, Sir Kinnaird, I am overcome. I can only 
thank you, only tell you how deeply sensible I am 
of your goodness; but this will be unnecessary. 
It is now my part, if any one’s, to act generously.” 

Mr. Travers passed his hand thoughtfully 
across his eyes; the great Beresford and Travers 
diamond gleamed in the sun; the pleasant feat- 
ures wore an expression of severe pain. 

“Tt goes against my principles and feelings to 
know of this man’s infamy, and to- be unable to 
bring him to justice.” 

“Tt is not yet a case where justice can step i In; 
there are some criminal dilemmas best managed 


privately.” 


“Yes, myself and friend have so decided. 
Garston,” turning to address that gentleman, seat- 
ed at the table, “Sir Kinnaird has just expressed 
the opinion, coinciding with our own, of the ne- 
cessity for private investigation.” 

Hands in the pockets of his shooting coat, 
Mr. Garston sauntered to the window, remarking, 

“A gallows, Sir, high as Haman’s, ay, and rr 
ble fifty cubits—” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“ Would present a fine view of the Devonshire 
perspective, Sir,” said a sardonic voice, from out 
a bower crimson with splendor of the Virginia 
creeper, which parted like ruddy curtains, while 


the black form of Noel Barnard was seen advan- 


cing. 

“You here!” said Sir Kinnaird, the least shade 
of annoyance to be perceived. 

“My presence is too valuable, Sir Kinnaird, to 
warrant long absence. I returned an hour ago 
—found you engaged—stepped into the arbor 
—delightful, all but the earwigs! Fine morning, 
gentlemen; Mr. Travers, I hope, is well ?” 

“Mr, Travers was well, Sir, up to seeing your- 
self, than which he would rather have the 
gout.” 

And, somewhat testily for him, the old gentle- 
man held his hand to Sir Kinnaird, with the re- 
mark, ‘“‘ We will be going now.” 

“Don’t let me frighten you away; I will re- 
tire,” said the accommodating Mr. Barnard. 

“ Frighten, Sir—you’d frighten the devil!” And 
the owner of Beresford Court, for once terribly 
discomposed, passed his pocket-handkerchief over 
his brow. 

“T am not on visiting terms—so don’t know. 
Hope you like Sir Kinnaird Dalton’s new place? 
Very airy, agreeable situation !” 

‘‘A word with you, Mr. Noel Barnard.” 

It was Herbert Garston who came forward, 
his face red with ire and indignation. The sec- 
retary looked coolly at the other, with the sarcasm 
which, at times serving for weapon, was more 
effective than the blunter mode of biting words. 

“TI beg to tell you, Sir, that if Sir Kinnaird 
Dalton submits to your insolent audacity, you 

‘can not expect other people to; I, for one, won’t; 
and I advise you, whenever in my presence, to 
keep a civil or a silent tongue in your head.” 

The situation was dramatic. Sir Kinnaird 
watched with eager interest to see how his im- 
pregnable scribe would receive the blunt attack. 
Mr. Travers looked at his friend with consider- 
able admiration. Mr. Travers’ could never have 
engaged in an open tourney of the kind, dreading, 
upon principle, an upset of any description, or 
any accident calculated to disturb the repose 
guaranteed by his years and position. Mr. Bar- 
nard sat crosswise upon a chair, elbows upon its 
back, and, with the most irritating effrontery, in- 
vited the speaker to define his notion of a. civil, 
if not of a silent, tongue. 

“T will tell you—be you tutor, secretary, or 
deuce knows what; and may you profit by it, or 

- one of these days you may find yourself bowled 
over. A civil tongue in the head, Sir, is to speak 
with deference in the presence of gentlemen, and 
with respect in the presence of a master; and a 
silent tongue is to speak only when spoken to.” 

“Hear! hear!” said an audible voice outside, 
where Simmons stood upon the mat, first scent- 
ing a scene with the quick instinct of his class, 
next waiting in devoted readiness, as not know- 
ing how soon his services might be required for 
the delicate baronet, who could not be expected 
to pass through so trying and vulgar an ordeal as 
this was without experiencing a corresponding 
reaction. 

Mr. Barnard was looking thoughtfully down, as 
though tracing afar problems too momentous to 
permit of reply by mere ordinary jangling. This 
exasperated his volcanic antagonist, who was re- 


113 


solved upon goading this iron and seemingly in- 
vulnerable being to the combat. 

‘‘When I entered this house, Mr. Noel Barnard, 
it was with a devout longing for the opportunity 
of speaking my mind to you.. I have been wait- 
ing for it. Iam glad I can in the presence of 
two gentlemen brand you with the dastardly titles 
of scoundrel, swindler, liar, and murderer !” 

Without, Simmons cut an eestatic jig upon the 
sheep-skin. 

Within, three men looked at Herbert Garston: 
Sir Kinnaird timorously, Beresford Travers re- 
provingly, Noel Barnard—the least disturbed 
person in the Hall—curiously yet collectedly. 
Then, in measured tones infinitely more danger- 
ous than anger, he answered, 

‘Perhaps Mr. Garston will qualify, or account 
for, the epithets favored with 2” 

“Certainly, Sir—without loss of time. You 
prove your claim to the first designation by hav- 
ing taken the advantage, when in a situation 
salaried and honorable, to insult a lady of the 
household. You were an infernal scoundrel, Sir, 
and met with your just deserts. To the second, 
by enmeshing a gentleman, whom you had in- 


-jured already, in a net-work of difficulty so com- 


plex that it brought about his ruin and enriched 
yourself, and crowned you a most consummate 
swindler. To the third, by blackening the name 
of a man whom, not because he was my best 
friend only, but because he was the purest, truest, 
most honorable, and most Christian man in Chris- 
tendom, I will set straight before the world, so 
help me God! And to the last, from the certain 
fact of your having been prime agent in effecting 
not only his destruction, but also, we believe, that 
of his wife and child.” 

‘“‘Had you been distinguished at the bar, Sir, 
you could not have delivered yourself with great- 
er fluency: and although I fail to follow the se- 
quence here and there, I have no wish to deny 
you full satisfaction resulting from the points of 
the brief. You will remember, as a rule, invective 
weakens a case, because when an impassioned 
pleader darts after some lurid and to him irrita- 
ting light, he leaves the level track, and while re- 
turning and recovering himself, opposing counsel 
possess the evident advantage contingent upon 
coolness. You are, of course, aware of the 
homely but apt illustration of the bull whom the 
red shawl excites in so marked a manner—mind, 
I am not likening yourself to that rampant yet 
necessary quadruped, nor yet to that other useful 
but equally awkward animal, the British Ass !” 

“Sir!” cried Mr. Garston, advancing threaten- 
ingly close to his glacial enemy, feeling that he 
had exhausted his quiver, “I take the liberty of 
telling you, who are so partial to travesty of the 
law, that it is stronger than the most mocking of 
those who break it with impunity; and that ere 
long its unerring grip will be firm upon yourself. 
Understanding the subtle theory of tactics so ad- 
mirably, you will, perhaps, point out to me the 
clumsy art when an adversary shows his cards: 
but I will do this, and warn you that link by link 
I am picking up the chain you hang about those 
unfortunate enough to become your victims. 
Scotland Yard has not yet been taxed, Sir, for a 
single official, nor shall it be, if I can prevent it, 
through regard for the feelings of Mr. Beresford 
Travers, who has suffered enough by your mach- 
inations. Alone, or aided by trusty friends—” 


114 


“ And servants!” interposed the other, with 
quiet irony. 

“ By any, Sir, who will aid me in this just cause, 
shall retribution be brought about. Never fear, 
Mr. Noel Barnard ;-a man like Lionel Travers is 
not to be stricken down by human hand without 
Heaven avenging the foul wrong and raising those 
who may be but instruments, yet are lbp wenn 
in Higher hands.” 

“ And yet,” said the other, musingly, ‘I te 8 
known the dead serve Heaven better than the 
living.” 

They heard, and thought long afterward of the 
mystical words, unable to grasp any connective 
significance, or attach a bearing upon their sub- 
ject. 
me Have we done any good ?” asked the old gen- 
tleman, his arm linked in that of his friend, as 
they were retracing their way down the road lead- 
ing to the town. Fair blue above, the splendid 
drapery of autumn around, the air softly genial 
and laden with odorous decay. 

“We have found that Dalton is our friend, 
and he will, I am convinced, opportunity serving, 
prove so.” 

“Of that I am sure; alas, his. power is but 
weak! He knows more of the nature and history 
of this man than he would disclose to us; and 
however elaborate and explicit a case, he would 
not undertake a system of espionage upon one of 
his own servants. Wrapped up in his sybaritic 
ease, and falling back upon those instincts of his 
breeding, he rather shuns and ignores the man 
than troubles about him.” 

“‘T don’t know; once or twice, when he appear- 
ed least attentive and most at ease, I noticed a 
painful twitching, as though himself suffering. 
Unlike you, my dear Sir, I believe Sir Kinnaird’s 
insouciance to be masquerading.” 

“Sir Kinnaird belongs to a later school, that I 
dare say occasionally adopts this effeminate escape 
from the unpleasant. Iam more accustomed to 
a race looking trouble or villainy boldly in the 
face, and bravely grappling with it.” 

“More in my way, Sir?” looking at his friend 
with a humorous twinkle; and Mr. Travers could 
not resist laughing. 

‘You go to extremes, Garston, altogether ex- 
ceed propriety in the enthusiasm of your warmth, 
and under influence of temporary excitement for- 
get prudence entirely.” 

“ Ah, well, I admit the man did excite me; it 
would take more than we know of to excite him. 
But wait and see; there may be a stronger than 
either of us at work.” 


——_»——__——. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
SEABOROUGH AFTER THE SEASON. 


Ir was exceedingly quiet at Seaborough. Vis- 
itors had fled, extras were discharged from the 
two large hotels, hired bedsteads were returned to 
the furniture mart, machines were drawn up in 
line for the winter, humanity upon the shingle 
waxed sparse, the summer and autumn visitors’ 
seasons were over for another year. It was far 
advanced in October : 
at Seaborough. 

The subscription band had ceased to make the 
promenade agreeable, the flowers were. passing 
away, dry leaves scampered before the wind, and 


it was exceedingly quiet. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


waves breaking upon shore were large and fierce: 
A line of vacant seats, a stretch of lonely walk, 
a deserted succession of grass-laid, shrub-bound- 
ed -inclosures. What dreary places they are, 
these lesser coast towns out of the season ! 

Still, people must eat, and drink, and dress— 
the people who remain, who are there throughout 
the year, having settled and become native. 

Thus the drapers were filling windows with 
seasonable dress stuffs, with flannels, blankets, 
and scarlet hosen; while the grocers were clear- 
ing away grimy-looking sugar-loaves and other 
dirt-besprinkled provender telling of the passed 
season. It was all very still, and there was little 
business stirring: any where in commercial local- 
ities; and, as a consequence, the good folks had 
more time to chatter, and chatter they did. It 
was something, indeed (as Mrs. Tapper, of the 
Linpon Arms, remarked to Mrs. Wallis, the iron- 
monger’s lady), for their great Hall, after being 
closed, and haunted, and shadowed from buttress 
to basement by mystery, and made the one show 
place and attraction for strangers (and every body 
knows how thirsty that sort of thing makes peo- 
ple), to be occupied by a posse of workmen who 
were modernizing and refitting the whole place. 
Why, Sleperton Green would lose its romantic as- 
sociation altogether, would degenerate to a mere 
village donkey-walk! . Mrs. Tapper was disgust- 
ed, because it was not to be supposed my lady 
would have her beer at the Arms, or my lady’s 
many servants be permitted to resort to the con- 
vivial shades of the hotel; at least it never had 
been so, and poor Tapper, when alive, had often 
said ‘‘as how the Hall was no good to nobody 
till it was empty.” Another thing, neither Mrs. 
Tapper, nor Mrs. Wallis, not yet Mrs. Rice, the 
Sleperton grocer and post-mistress, was quite sure 
it was all right. Where had her ladyship sprung 
from all at once? Well, Mrs. Tapper had a sis- 
ter who let apartments, and among other items 
of news contained in a recent letter (the sister re- 
sided in Brighton) was the history of this Queen of 
their Season; and how her ladyship was sovereign- 
ing it in Brighton, without an equal or even an 
attempt at rivalry; and this in the company of 
her father. ‘‘ Now,” said Mrs. Tapper, with em- 
phasis, ‘‘I want to know where his lordship is ? 
I have always had a suspicion of his being hid- 
den away in the building somewhere, and I do 
know: Tapper one night saw a white-bearded, 
ghastly-looking figure, “surrounded by a pale blue 
light, and I should have spoken of it afore, only 
Tapper said, ‘ Whatever you does, don’t mention 
it; for they’d pull the place down to find out . 
what it was, and we should lose the earning of 
many an honest penny.’ Now, why does her lady- 
ship come a-upsetting the whole place if the 
mystery about his lordship isn’t cleared up? I 
for one don’t believe he’s so far off as the very 
polite widow and very precise bailiff are so fond 
of making out.” 

Mrs. Wallis, who had done a brisk business in 
the way of nails, screws, tools, bars, bolts, locks, 
and other iron-ware, thought it might do the vil- 
lage good, and certainly between seasons. 

“Altogether, the discussion ran high, and mean- 
time the Manor-house was undergoing. its em- 
bellishment and general renovation, curiously 
watched by the elegant widow and her son, who 
day by day saw, from the Cottage windows, the 
progress made. 


A MODERN MINISTER. ; 


“So she is coming back!” Mrs. Vincent had 
said to herself, when the news first came, and the 
advance staff of artisans quickly followed. ‘She 
has the nerve to brazen it out, and to return to 
the scene any other woman would avoid forever ; 
and she returns as Lady Lindon. There is some 
deep purpose in this. And all the years have 
failed to bring me what I looked for—/e has not 
returned. Would that I knew of his where- 
abouts, knew the secret of the years! Where 
has he hidden himself for solong? Where hides 
he now? I think, nay, I know, he always liked 
me: was not my sympathy ever to his hand? 
When he would casually allude to the icy hauteur 
of her ladyship, and describe all delicately the 
constant pain it caused him, was not my tender- 
est sympathy awakened, and did I not ever lend 
a sensitive ear? And he was grateful. He tried 
hard as man ever tried in this world to evoke 
some little affection and warmth in that frigid 
bosom; but she was ever the same, and told me 
one day she had never known what it was to feel 
interested in any one, let alone to like them. 
‘Of course I esteem Harold,’ she said to me, 
‘his family is so unexceptionable.’ And there 
it began and ended. The creature without fam- 
ily is pariah completely with Lady Lindon; she 
admits no degree. Well, I can not boast of fam- 
ily, although we were always eminently genteel ; 
but I do not think Lord Harold cares for that 
sort of thing. He has married into family, and 
I fancy once in a life is sufficient for a man of 
his calibre; perhaps next time, for a change, he 
would rather marry out of a family. But with 
all his splendid qualities and ideas of the roman- 
tic, he failed to come up to my calculation after 
the blow; and I certainly heightened the effect 
as artistically as possible, the more easily as he 
is one of those susceptibly jealous ones. I would 
have staked my little income upon the divorce; 
but no, he shrank either from the publicity or 
from inflicting pain upon her, yet surely did not 
preserve the ashes of his ridiculous and insen- 
sate love. Why, a man with his nice sense of 
honor should have gone at the case with splendid 
dash, and have settled the woman forever! And 
then—have married me—poor little Me, who 
have bestowed more devotion in a day than that 
iceberg in all the term of their wedded years. 
Well, Lorry, my darling, I have vowed that the 
rooms your feet have overrun so long shall be 
yours and mine, and, should no untoward acci- 
dent intervene, I will keep my word. Now this 
very reserve and seclusion on his part may be- 
token the treasuring of old recollections, and a 
painful clinging to sacred associations ; if so, the 
embers of the love may want but little fanning: 
revive the love, the jealousy should follow; the 
open wound will make that certain. Get Helen 
here, alone with her establishment, exposed to all 
the gossip of the Green, open to all the stings 
of village scorpions, defenseless before the idle 
scandal of the town, none loving, most hating, 
my proud false empress; then I will bring down 
the charming Minister who is taking all hearts 
captive, and whom, I doubt not, she knows well 
enough, seeing they share the sovereignty in that 
town par excellence of intrigue and fashion; and 
I noticed how he stood before her portrait, seem- 
ingly strangely moved by it. Ob, I will play upon 
the quivering lyre—his heart—until he is over 
head and ears in love with her; and then to dis- 


115 


close this second escapade to my lenient and re- 
lenting lord, Will there be no reward for all 
this faithful service? Ay, I should be Lady Lin- 
don! J will be! And I think I see the way to 
securing this visit of the great preacher later on. 
These men of thought are easiest caught by little 
things—that child he was with and bestowed so 
much attention upon, the woman Blake’s little 
girl, a tractable, pliable child enough, whom Lor- 
ry rather liked—I will invite her here for a 
month in the winter; the Cottage is cozy then, 
and she will love it; and she shall write to West- 
ley Garlagd, begging him to come and see her, 
inclosing a pressing invitation from myself; and 
if this is one of those strong prepossessions I 
have known men of culture take—although I 
could never understand why, seeing the number 
of charming mademoiselles and madames wait- 
ing to be booked—he will come, to a certainty. 
So I do think, my dear Mrs. Vincent, the winter 
will not be so uneventful after all.” 

Standing in the garden one morning, standing 
below the bower-like porch, handing her bird a 
piece of sugar, the quick ears of the lady detect- 
ed the musical chime of bells approaching, and 
the fast. trotting of a pairof ponies. ‘The How- 
ards!” she said, going in-doors and up stairs, “ they 
may call;” and she re-arranged the hair—very 
long and luxuriant hair it was, worn in a coil— 
which the rough wind had displaced. Yes, they 
had driven up to the gate, and peeping round the 
curtain, she saw the spruce tiger at the ponies’ 
heads, while the Major, with true officer’s gallant- 
ry, assisted his imposing lady to alight. Now 
there was a vast difference in the style of these 
neighborly and eminently genteel ladies. While 
Mrs. Vincent, come upon her when one might, 
was the pink of most exquisite neatness and lady- 
like elegance, Mrs. Major Howard cultivated a far 
more elaborate mode, and was the superessence 
of extreme grandeur. The robes Mrs. Major How- 
ard adorned were made, she said, by the late cos- 
tumier-artiste to the Empress Eugénie; the fur 
jackets, which imparted so astonishing a set-off 
to the majestic carriage of this military lady, were 
made, she said, by the private furrier to the Em- 
press of Russia; the magnificent conception in 
lace and feathers which Mrs. Major Howard en- 
titled her chapeau was invariably made, she said, 
in Paris; she having so frequently to step in and 
out of her pony-carriage, the vulgar eye of Sea- 
borough and Sleperton was dazzled by highly or- 
namental buckles upon the shoes, made purpose- 
ly for her, said the lady, in Austria; altogether, 
to use Mrs. Major Howard’s own words, “The 
tout ensemble is un peu prodigue.” The English 
language, like its fashions, being too meagre for 
the lady, she affected foreign tongues, of which 
she spoke as many as the prowlers left at Babel 
after the dispersion of its architects. In earlier 
days Mrs. Major Howard had enjoyed life as a 
governess to a peculiarly restless family, who 
turned up one morning on the Andes and anoth- 
er on the Cordilleras, a family which, from the 
head to the tail of it, lived a life of chronic fid- 
gets: it really seeming as though there was not 
a square yard of habitable soil for them this side 
of immensity. Now this ceaseless wandering and 
flitting from place to place served to develop 
natural ability; and the lady, who, although in- 
oculated with the true principles of an adventur- 
ess, was undeniably clever, had slight difficulty in 


116 


making a brilliant alliance ; which, to her disgust, 
proved any thing but satisfactory, for the Major 
was over head and ears in debt, and so had re- 
mained ever since. 

This was the leading lady of Seaborough, who 
had made a morning call at the Cottage. 

To Mrs. Vincent came her maid, the very em- 
bodiment of neatness, bearing the lady’s card; 
and Mrs. Vincent went down stairs to where the 
Major stood on the hearth-rug, as though putting 
himself upon drill, while his lady was seated wide- 
ly outspread upon the sofa. 

“How do, my dear? We haven’t, seen you 
for so long a ‘time; the Major was getting anxious 
—now you know ‘you were, you naughty man— 
well, and how do you do?” 

% Very well, sit down; won’t you take a chair, 
Major? Pleased to see you out this fine morn- 
ing!” 

“Keep to the regular exercise, my dear madam ; 
to it I attribute the uniformly good health I, as 
you know, enjoy.” 

“We thought, perhaps, you would come and 
dine with us to-day,” said the Major’s lady ; “‘ we 
shall but sit down to fowls and a shoulder of 
mutton, but you will pardon a profuse board, 
knowing we would if we could.” 

“T shall be very pleased—” 

“Tt is so good of you. Of course you come 
for the little quiet chat?” Mrs. Vincent bowed. 

“Have you heard from Sir Charles Neville 
lately ?” 

‘* Not very,” answered the Major’s lady, a little 
confused ; ‘he is hunting in Essex. Sir Charles 
has friends at Chelmsford, I believe.” 

“Chelmsford,” repeated the Major, standing 
full front, thumbs tucked in at the armholes of 
his vest, ‘“‘ wasn’t I stationed there in fifty-eight ? 
Ah, no, I recollect—memory’s going fast, Mrs. 
Howard—it was at Colchester; I remember we 
had a great field-day; wounded in the arm ; Cam- 
bridge messed with us at the garrison. Was it 
the garrison or the Cups? Politely sent inquiries 
in the morning ;” and the Major took a pinch of 
snuff from the enameled box presented to him, 
so he said, by Wellington. 

“The Major will never forget the dear duke!” 
said Mrs, Howard, devoutly ; ‘‘ Memoria, my dear, 
memoria in ceternd !” 

Mrs. Vincent nodded assentingly, without be- 
ing in the least aware of its meaning; she was 
at all times prepared to grapple with the lady’s 
French, her Latin she could not touch. 

“Then we may expect you?” said Mrs. Major 
Howard, rising with august state. ‘“ At half past 
two for three.” 

“T will be punctual.” 

“T know you will—the dear Major is so very 
particular! The force of old habit: qualis vita, 
Jinis ita: the Major” (whispering to her friend) 
‘is a strict disciplinarian, poor man! Alas, our 
lot is much changed since we have retired into 
private life!” 

No one had ever quite known what regiment 
the ex-officer had been major of; his usual reply, 
upon the question being incidentally raised, was, 
‘‘Papers at the Horse-Guards, have ’em sent on 
to you!” and nobody receiving the papers, it was 
either concluded to have slipped the Major’s 
memory, or that some little difficulty existed 
about removing the papers from the Horse- 
Guards. The majority of people had quite a 


4 A MODERN MINISTER. 


hazy notion respecting that institution, and were 
rarely surprised the schedule of honor was not 
forth-coming, 

Precise to time, Mrs. Vincent was at the Ma- 
jor’s pretty house, "just off the Marine Parade, at 
Seaborough; and there Mrs. Howard received her 
guest with the large assurance of a lady possessed 
of the original court presence and true bon ton. 

The Major, seated upon a footstool, was teach- 
ing a remarkably ugly terrier to shoulder a mus- 
ket in the form of a desk rule. 

“ Now, Sir!” cried the Major, with the genuine 
military force, “shoulder—arms! Left wheel! 
Right about—face! Present! Fire!” 

“Major dear, pray don’t make so much noise 
in-doors; take a turn on the lawn; just time for 
drill before dinner. Poor fellow!” as the.Major 
dutifully called off his troop, “he will turn the 
drawing-room into a parade-ground! And now, 
dear, how are you? I am so glad you’ve run 
down to see me; for one can’t talk before the 
men; and how proceeds the Hall ?” 

“The workmen are at it still; they will finish, 
I suppose, by December.” ‘ 

“And then we shall see this paragon. I told 
the Major this morning he must prepare to see 
his poor wife eclipsed entirely. Isupport a great 
deal, dear, from the rude staring of these coun- 
try-folk—and it is very unpleasant being so 
stared at, isn’t it? But after her ladyship ar- 
rives I hope they will have something else to at- 
tract their attention. I suppose she zs very styl- 
ish, is she not ?” and the lady bit viciously at her 
little finger-nail. 

“Tt is an eccentric style—rather heathenish,” 

“Oh!” the military lady breathed again. ‘She 
does not presume to compete in the lists of fash- 
ion ?” 

“You have nothing to fear on that score. I 
shall be glad to hear what you think of her.” 

“Good figure, I dare say, tall, perhaps disposed 
to embonpoint § 2” 

“Of course I can not say, not having seen 
what changes time and—dissipation have work- 
ed. You will not be struck; good carriage, noth- 
ing else noticeable.” 

At this moment the Major was seen to beat a 
hasty retreat from the field; a man appeared at 
the garden gate; Mrs. Major Howard arose with 
dignity and closed the door; the man walked as 
meaning business, and unpleasant business! Mrs. 
Major Howard bit her lip, and commenced to 
play upon the piano, but above all the sound of 
the music arose the disputing and querulous 
voice of the Major’s creditor. “ But I tell you I 
know he’s at home—saw him enter the house. 
I’m not going till he comes to some definite ar- 
rangement about my little bill! DPve been for it 
nigh upon a score of times now, and I don’t 
mean to call no more; if that ain’t settled this 
week, you just tell him it ’ll be placed in other 
hands.” The martial tread of the Major re- 
sounded along the hall. ‘‘ What is the matter, 
Tabitha ?”’ called the Major. ‘Tell the man we 
are not requiring any thing to-day!” The man 
put a foot forward, a knee, a nose; the man 
stood within the hall. ‘Ah, Mr. Smelt, you’ve 
called for that little matter of—of—yon did send 
in the account, I think?”  “ Every week, Sir, for 
ten months!” “Bless me, how thoughtful of 
you! Must have been mislaid. Tabitha, girl, 
Mr. Smelt’s little bill—how is this? Have I not 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


again and again impressed upon you the impor- 
tance of system in the commissariat? These in- 
accuracies will occur, my dear Sir, in the most 
exemplary of magazines” (this said confidential- 
ly), “but Iam obliged by your calling—very, I 
will see they are filed, Sir, for the future with reg- 
ularity. _Exeuse me—kitchen chimney on fire,” 
and the Major marched for that scene of action 
to the disregard of the unwelcome intruder. 

“Pardon me, my dear; this will, I know, be of 
service,’ and Mrs. Vincent pressed her purse upon 
the embarrassed lady. 

“ How kind you are!” kissing her. ‘ How can 
we reward you for these repeated acts of good- 
ness ?” 

“By not saying any thing about them, dear. 
Look how good the Major is to Lorry. My boy 
is my weak point; those that are good to him 
are good to me, and I am of a grateful nature.” 

“Dear creature!” murmured the Major’s lady, 
nipping the purse to estimate its contents, then 
ringing the bell imperiously. Enter Tabitha. 

“When any of the tradesmen come to the 
front-door, Tabitha, tell them I do not permit par- 
leying ; they must go round to the kitchen. Let 
me know the amount of this person’s bill.” 

The martial tread again resounded ; the Major 
had caught the cue. 

“Yes, let me know the amount of this per- 
son’s bill.”” The Major loftily opened the purse. 
“State your demand, Sir, without loss of time. 
And I will thank you, when sending for orders 
to-morrow, to send the back way; and—do be 
more careful about sending in those little bills, 
All dispatches, Tabitha, should be laid upon the 
breakfast table.” 

The fish-monger to the Guards having retired 
satisfied, the Major politely tendered an arm to 
each lady, and led to dinner. 

‘““My dear, you will take the bottom of the ta- 
ble; Mrs. Vincent, perhaps, will take this upon 
my right. We are glad to see you with us to- 
day, ma’am. My dear, attention!” 

The Major said grace, the ladies looked down. 

“Let me assist you to a little piece of the 
breast, ma’am.” 

“Tf you please. How well your ferns are look- 
ing,” to the Major’s lady. 

“Yes, dear; but we are afraid they won’t sur- 
vive the winter; the Major is so fond of flowers. 
Ah, my love, it shows a truly guileless spirit, such 
fondness for the vegetable kingdom.” 

“T remember the old duke,” said Major How- 
ard, ‘never appeared in full regimentals without 
a sprig of rose, shamrock, and thistle in his coat. 
‘Howard, old boy,’ he said to me one day, ‘ we'll 
stick to the symbols with the colors.’ ” 

“Dear duke!” said Mrs. Howard, wiping her 
eyes, “Ah, what the country, the nation, his 
private friends, lost in him!” 

“A little gravy, ma’am. My dear, you have 
the bread-sauce, assist our friend. So sorry Mas- 
ter Lorry is not here.” 

There was a violent ringing of the bell, and 
Tabitha, at the bidding of her master, hastened 
to learn the meaning of the untimely clamor, re- 
turning to say something in a low voice to the 
Major. 


“ Dear me, this is most unfortunate! The cov- 


117 


declare I was gomg to put my hand on your purse 
as though it were my own. Do let me return it, 
or I am sure to make some absurd blunder— 
really.” 

“Pray do, Major. 
service.” 

“Well, now, I don’t like—it is too imposing. 
Don’t you think so, my dear ?” 

“The Major is so delicate,” murmured the Ma- 
jor’s wife in her friend’s ear, “he can not bear to 
accept these little favors. I can see he is almost 
refusing. ShallIcoax him?” The other nodded, 
and the Major was coaxed, and yielded with the 
grace of a general. 

“ Help our friend toa little broccoli, my dear.” 

“You will, won't you? Now do!” persuaded 
the Major’s lady, sincerely feeling their visitor was 
entitled to it. 

“Thank you, I will. And how are the birds, 
Major?” Major Howard possessed six canaries, 
which he had trained to go through drill and a 
variety of manceuvres. 

“Tn first-class condition, I am obliged; re- 
moved them to the back for the sun.” 

“The dear man is so attached to the pretty 
things,” said his lady in a low voice to her friend ; 
“it displays such an innocent taste, and, one may 
say, in a military man, such tenderness of feel- 
ing.” 

“JT suppose the Manor-house will come out 
quite smart, ma’am, after all the doing up ?” 

“Yes, Major, it is being elaborately prepared 
for Lady Lindon-—so much the more comfortable 
for her ladyship!” Mrs. Vincent, with infinite care 
and neatness, having set a tiny piece of the flower 
of her broccoli in a soft white bed of the bread- 
sauce, raised the same upon the plated prong to 
her mouth, permitting her piercing eyes to dwell 
an instant upon the liquidly expressive orbs of 
the Major’s lady. 

“Those set in high places have much to be 
thankful for; we thought so once, Major, but, 
alas! were not then sufficiently grateful for all 
we enjoyed ;” and the lady straightened a ruffled 
piece of lace at her throat. 

“Allow me to pass you the drum-stick, my 
dear.” 

“Dear Major, he thinks he is carving turkey 
again.” 

And Mrs. Major Howard, overcome, but recov- 
ering herself, said, “No, Major, attend to our 
friend.” 

“Tabitha, a hot plate for Mrs. Vincent; nay, no 
refusal ;” and the Major was making an onslaught 
upon the second fowl, when he started as though 
galvanized. 

“An ambuscade!” And the ex-officer laid 
down the carving knife and fork, while a tremen- 
dous ringing at the back and knocking at the front 
caused the ladies to look at one another, and the 
lady of fashion to sink back gaspingly. 

“Oh, Major! I feel as though fainting; these 
terrible shocks are more than I can bear !” 

“My angel!” eried the Major, quite broken 
down, standing over the stricken but still large 
form of his lady, while Tabitha entered with a hot 
plate and the information of two men at the back- 
door and two at the front. 

“Butcher, baker, green-grocer, and milkman !”’ 


I am so pleased to be of 


er, please; and place my plate in the oven. Real-| muttered the officer, fanning his wife with the 


ly these people have no regard for one’s feelings. | hot plate between the interjections. 
I to be done? Iam desperate 1” 


A fellow about a paltry account for grocery. 


“What is 


118 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


‘“‘Major,” said his lady, solemnly, ‘this is a| agreeable little dinner provided for their friend,. 


coup de grace.” 


it came to a close, as agreeable little dinners will, 


“‘ My dear,” said the Major, penitently, “it is a | and the ladies sat down to needle-work and a quiet 


judgment. ‘We were not sufficiently grateful to 
our friend just now for that generous and sym- 
pathetic expression of her esteem.” 

“Pray see to this, Major. There is yet sufficient 
in the purse to satisty these troublesome pesply: 
I think you have it.” 

“T?. Why, bless my soul, solhave! Well, now, 
I don’t know what my memory is coming to, my 
dear! No, Mrs. Vincent, I can’t, I won’t. Pm 
grateful, ma’am, on the honor of an officer and 
a gentleman, but I will not thus— Show the per- 
sons into the parlor, Tabitha; I will be with them 
in an instant; this matter must be compromised ; 
there is conspiracy. Although unfortunate, I am 
not to be hounded to capitulation. Let me prove 
to the foe that a servant, a subject of the Queen 


chat in the drawing-room. The Major, light- 
hearted again and almost boyish, returned to the 
lawn, where, sitting upon a chair, he, with his 
aviary upon another chair opposite to him, put 
his feathered corps through their exercises, frag- 
ments of the commandant’s directions floating in 
now and then to that room where, overcanopied 
by lace, the ladies reclined by the window at their 
knitting. 

“You have been so good to us to-day! 
can I do?” 

“Nothing, dear, at present; I will always ask 
you if there is any thing.” 

“Do, there’s a love! How nice you look to- 
day! Ah! how I wonder that you do not marry.” 

“Hush! not a word. Do you not know that 


What 


“THE MAJOR, TAKING ANOTHER FROM THE CAGE, INTRODUCED ‘MARSHAL SOULT.’” 


of England”—in his agitation the Major left the 
room, taking the purse with him. 

“Dear Major !” gasped his lady; “is he not a 
treasure? is he not brave, confronting single- 
handed those fearful men 2” 

“Indeed he is!” responded the visitor, who, 
like her hostess, marked the removal of the purse 
in the absent-mindedness of the Major. 

That individual returned, and sitting down, 
with a sigh of relief, said, 

“Say grace, my love 9 

“Why, Major, we have not dined !”” 

“Bless my soul, no! Tabitha, the mutton!” 
in his emotion and forethought preserving an eye 
to the morrow, when Mr. and Mrs. Harry Abbott 
were invited to supper. 

Thus in due time, when sweets and cheese and 
dessert and wine had served to complete the 


my life is consecrated to my books, my pictures; 
and my music ?” 

“And to doing good !” 

“Well, so far as in my humble capacity—” 

“ Present !”? came from the lawn. 

“ Dear Major, he has the canaries in such dis- 
cipline!’? Mrs. Major Howard’s knitting - pins 
chinked and jinked until they had the ring of 
specie. 

“Well, and what are you going to do all the 
winter ?—remain in Seaborough ?” 

“T think so; it comes dreadfully expensive 
travelling, or I should feel thankful to get away. 
This place is horribly dull in the winter.” 

“No town has its pleasure all the year round.” 

“A doubtful palit my love; look at Brighton, 
to wit.” 

“Not habitable in summer—a perfect furnace. 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


By-the-bye, I suppose you’ve heard this famous 
Minister is paying rather marked attention to our 
coming grand lady ?” 

“Not a word of it. Good gracious, and not di- 
vorced! So this is modern ministry, the repro- 
bate !” 

‘Don’t be harsh with him; they are two fas- 
cinating ones together. But it zs hard for poor 
Lord Lindon !” 

“Yes, if I ever pitied any one, I pity his lord- 
ship.” 

“ And he stands so little chance beside this 
captivating fellow.” 

“Oh, it is dreadful! 
sex so weak ?” 

“Well, Lady Lindon is not one of the weak sort 
exactly; but, you see, Garland is such a dangerous 
character, and so nearly perfect, and so utterly 
unlike the rest of his sex in every respect, he is 
quite irresistible. I for one am not surprised to 
hear of it, but I believe he is the only living man 
who would ever have made an impression upon 
her ladyship. She is not what she was, although, 
for that matter, I do not believe she ever cared 
forthat— But this is an old scandal, before your 
time, my dear.” ) 

“Pray tell me all about it; I never did hear 
the rights of that story, and being réchauffé you 
will not mind; I am quite safe, my dear.” 

“ Reserve your charge!” from the garden. 

“He is so happy now,” said the lady, smil- 
ing. 

“ Ah! I must go and have a look at the Major’s 
birds ;” and there was a trail of gray silk upon 
the lawn, and a little white hand on the Major’s 
shoulder where the elegant widow stood beside 
him, with her charming—“ Just come to see how 
the dickey-birds are going on!” 

“‘Splendidly. Dosit down.” The Major waved 
a hand to the garden seat near by, and, taking 
one of the birds from the long cage before him, 
chirped it upon his forefinger. ‘This is my con- 
quering hero, Wellington. Head up, Sir; face the 
lady!” The bird faced at command, and looked 
so ludicrous the lady smiled. The Major, tak- 
ing another from the cage, introduced “ Marshal 
Soult.” ‘Soult, attention, Sir; bear the stand- 
ard!” handing it his silver pencil-case, which the 

‘bird clutched by the claw. He then whistled and 
called “Ney,” when a sleek, light-colored bird 
hopped to the summons, alighting upon the cuff 
of the Major’s sleeve. This was followed by 
“ Niel,” by “ Pelissier,” and by “Saxe,” described 
merely as maréchals de camp, the Major explain- 
ing with much politeness that the names, with the 
exception of that of his old friend Wellington, 
were bestowed out of compliment to Mrs. How- 
ard, whose tastes were so essentially French. 

Mrs. Howard came sweeping from the house 
—“Not to hurry you away, dear, but I know 
you won’t mind telling me if you will stay tea 
with.us; I shall think it so kind if you will, but 
I wanted to know because our maid is going 
down town; I am sure you will approve my 
candor, and will tell me if you prefer sally-lunn 
to muffins. So sorry to put it in this pointed 
manner,” . 

“T can not stay, dear.” 

“Oh, but you must!” 

“Certainly !” cried the Major. 

“There! The Major says you are to, and you 
dare not disobey the Major!” and the Major’s 


Ah, my dear, why is our 


119 


lady pretended to button a cuff, as much as to 
signify it was time to depart. 

“T really can not stay—many thanks; and I 
have a letter to write to Lorry, who, I think I told 
you, is in London for a month or so—a little 
change he was wanting; but the dear boy is 
there more for study than pleasure. He has a 
strong inclination for painting. I think if I let 
him have proper lessons he will one day paint.” . 

“You paint, yourself, beautifully!” said Mrs. 
Howard, with sincerity. . It was just praise, Mrs. 
Vincent being an exquisite artist. 

““It would be the greatest joy of my life if 
Lorry were to turn out some day a great painter. 
It is the one thing I have ever desired wealth 
for, that my boy might be so enabled to study 
under the best masters, and travel to lands where 
art creates art and cultivates excellence.” 

‘“‘ Remember the great duke once saying to me, 
‘Howard, old boy, P’ve but one regret, you’re not 
on my shield,’ referring to the shield commemo- 
rative of his victories, presented to him by the 
bankers and merchants. Ah! it’s a great art, 
preserving a record by feature, or scene, or inci- 
dent, of that to live forever—can’t think what I 
was about not to be on the shield! But some 
people are always too late for every thing. Tab- 
itha!” called the Major to their domestic, “tell 
the boy to put the ponies in.” 

And Mrs. Vincent was driven home at a fast 
trot, and with jingle of bells; village urchins 
coming forth in shoals to stare open-mouthed at 
the natty little concern, and at the “ booful lady 
o’ th’ Cottage.” 

_ Home to a quieter tea, a thoughtful tea. And 
after tea to letter-writing. 

And once or twice the lady went to the front- 
door to look at the night, at the belt of dusky 
trees piercing the starry canopy, at the half circle 
of lights where the cottages skirted the Green, 
and at the great house standing back with scaf- 
folding and piles, and a red lantern where a 
watchman already slept. 


ee 


CHAPTER XXXV. 
A MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING. 


THE dead leaves had a rare time of it upon 
Sleperton Green, when the wind scoured as it did 
the night Mrs. Vincent stood in her porch watch- 
ing the lights disappear one by one where the 
folk retired to their rest. It was a weird, scam- 
pering chase, that of the dry and brittle leaves. 
They frisked impudently around the watchman’s 
legs, and smote his long drab coat, lodged on his 
old hat, and tickled him on the cheek, and all 
without waking him; they became ruby under 
glow of the lantern, and bronze below a light 
from the open door of the cottage, and ebon 
where by the great house they huddled. close, as 
though timorous of their quarters. 

At last all was dark around Sleperton Green, 
save for that red light swinging and swaying to 
the October wind. 

Yonder, over the Green, a column or two of, 
smoke, where in Sleperton village the good-wives 
busied at their husbands’ suppers, after long work, 
or tramping it from market with the master’s 
stock. Still in Sleperton village silence and dark- 
ness were prevailing. Beyond this, among the 


120 


quaint red-bricked houses of Seaborough Old 
Town, more life was stirring; the blacksmith’s 
forge was but just closing, and the bar parlor of 
the small tavern was still filled with a roistering 
crew. Old Seaborough folk timed their rest by 
Dr. Poppington’s school. Exactly at half past nine 
a bell rang dolorously, and soon a line of feeble 
glimmer gave form to the old historical barrack, 
scaring the owls from their ivied fastnesses, and 
within ten minutes all was dreary and still. Then 
the good-man would say, “It’s bed-time, old wom- 
an; the school bell’s gone this long while,” and 
would draw quicker whiffs at the pipe: and every 
night by ten the Old Town slept. 

So it came about, as she knew very well, this 
widow lady at the Cottage was the sole wakeful 
creature. Her books, her work, kept her up until 
alate hour; but then, save for some stray gypsy 
or prowling poacher, there were none to see. 
Upon this night the lady softly closed her front- 
door and secured it; then as softly—for the very 
neat maid was asleep—went to her kitchen, and 
placed a light in the lantern she was accustomed 
to use when going to the Manor-house at this 
hour. She shrouded it with the thick shawl 
wrapped about herself, and quitted the cottage 
by the back way, taking a leaf-strewn, bramble- 
grown path leading to the rear of the mansion. 

Full soon would her run of the noble dwelling 
be at an end, and but the galling satisfaction re- 
main of seeing a troop of others go in and out. 
Not for an instant did she suppose Lady Lindon 
would resume that friendly intercourse previously 
existing between them, nor did she wish it. 

How strange the place looked with great patch- 
es of white upon the floor; workmen’s baskets, 
timber, braziers, glue, and paint; with scaffolding, 
carpenters’ benches, and the joiners’ implements ; 
cans, bottles, and earthen pipkins of the stain- 
ers; with here a fire stove waiting to be fixed, and 
there a cornice in process of regilding; an array 
of plates for the doors, and varnish for the grain- 
ers to make the panels lustrous. Here were 
boards taken up, there the wainscoting was taken 
_down, for rats were many in the Manor-house, 
and it was not to be expected her ladyship would 
submit to any annoyance of that sort. In one 
place the dividing wall between two rooms of 
moderate dimensions was removed—her lady- 
ship’s ideas of interior space were for any thing 
but contracted areas; in another a ceiling had 
been raised to present more loftiness: all was 
confusion, as is inevitable under such circum- 
stances, to be righted only when the united forces 
of Sleperton and Seaborough char-women applied 
themselves vigorously to the task. 

Some of the rooms were not to be touched, 
such as the large dining-room, the library, the 
double drawing-room, and the study, and those 
rooms were locked. The bunch of duplicate keys 
possessed by the lady admitted her to any of them, 
and she entered the room where that painting 
stood, like the haughty Helen herself. As she 
did so, she uttered a little cry of surprise : a man 
was standing before it, holding on high a light, 
the better to observe the picture. He extinguish- 
ed the light in an instant, but not before she had 
recognized the features. There was a dead still- 
ness for one moment; then, without raising her 
lantern, she said, with admirable calmness, there- 
by wishing to restore his presence of mind, 


“ T—have—seen—you, Lord Harold. Do not | 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


fear; you can go and return as many times as it 
pleases you, and no word shall escape my lips to 
any save yourself. J knew you would come back 
—have expected you. Let me be your friend, as 
of old, if only in gratitude for your long kindness 
to us. Here is my hand—will you not take it? 
—the hand of Anna Vincent.” 

There was such perfect silence she became 
alarmed, and restlessly placed the lantern on the 
mantel-piece; its light fell across the dark oak 
paneling, upon the dense pile of the table-cover, 
and skins stretched upon the floor ; but not upon 
the man returned to the scene of his grief, where 
he leaned back against the wall, scathed by the 
face limned with such cruel perfection—the face 
he had loved, had wooed to love, had died to the 
world for. He could not utter a word, though to 
thank her only, and the woman waited ; he would 
be weak following upon this, all shaken ; he would 
speak and he would listen all in good time. She 
was patient also, not speaking. She was con- 
scious of muffled, strangled throes, that had not 
sound, but shook the space, bearing grim witness 
to the suffering; and she waited. Oh, he would 
be weaker after this, and need such soothing! 
She even turned the lantern round to give him 
more shade; he should have shade in plenty. 
Only wait till she was Lady Lindon, and see the 
myriad lights, though! 

He came forward, taking her hand, saying, in 
broken utterance, “ Thanks, friend ; you were ever 
considerate.” 

She placed her other hand upon his, and pressed 
it ever so lightly, yet sufficient to express all her 
heart-felt sympathy; and she stood more in the 
light, that he might see how her face could inter- 
pret the feeling at her heart. A still attractive 
face, unlined, and with a bloom clear as at six- 
teen; her hair, as usual, in perfect order. Had 
Mrs. Vincent encountered a goblin, her hair would 
have remained in perfect order. 

“Rumor of this reached me; I only come to 
satisfy myself.” 

“‘ And are you pleased, my lord ?” 

“T do not occupy the house; Lady Lindon may 
as well be here as not.” 

“Tt has struck you there may be some little 
sorrow at the bottom of this strange proceeding ; 
is it not so? Perchance repentance.” 

And she knew that he quivered like the aspen, 
but he did not answer her. 

-“T confess,” she continued, “it bears that as- 
pect upon the face of it; but I can not reconcile 
the thought that her ladyship is now a foremost 
—nay, the foremost—leader in society.” 

“Her ladyship always took a foremost position 
in society,” replied Lord Lindon, proudly. ‘It is 
nothing new.” 

“But it is, I think, new for her ladyship to hold 
her own as absolute monarch in the gay world; 
and this she is now doing in Brighton, where so 
complete is her sway, our literary Bayard, I am 
told, is all beside himself.” 

“What riddle is this ? 
your literary Bayard ?” 

“What! do you not know 2 Gatandi preacher 
and poet, Utopian philentheaes and chevalier of 
distressed humanity.” 

“T am sadly behind the times—have not heard 
the name before; but if he is that, the sooner he 
comes to Sleperton Manor, the better.” And with 
a half moan the nobleman, wearily taking the 


Whom do you style 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


light, said, “‘Let us go from this room. I have 
not seen the library ; stands it where it did?” 

“Untouched, save for the liberal use we have 
made of your permission to read the books.” 

He bowed with gracious pleasure, glad they had 
done so; and the two proceeded to the library. 

Upon the table, central of the spacious cham- 
ber, were several works of recent date. He had 
not seen them, and looked at their backs curious- 
ly; men were represented there whom he had 
known, felt the cordial grasp of hand from some, 
possessed letters written by others; it was like 
coming back to life, this weird remeeting with 
old worth. © 

The lady, taking up one of the books—a quiet- 
ly yet richly bound copy—handed it to his lord- 
ship, with the simple remark, ‘‘ Our Bayard’s last, 
The Triumph of Seasons ; it is causing some stir 

just now.” 

“Thanks; I will read it.” And the owner of 
the large library of old and valuable books lining 
the lofty walls walked slowly round, noting each 
change of position even after all that lapse of 
years. Itis the one sad sensation the book-lover 
alone can know—abruptly parting with a rare 
and well-loved collection, and abruptly standing 
in their presence again after the interval which 
seeins so interminable. It was with fond atten- 
tion his lordship scanned each line and tier. 

“T am glad to see the old friends again; truly 
did Johnson say, ‘Books are faithful reposito- 
ries, which may be a while neglected or forgotten, 
but, when they are opened again, will again im- 
part their instruction.’ ” 

“Tt is a privilege we shall miss very much. 
When her ladyship arrives we shall be forced to 
turn again to our own modest collection.” 

“TJ will send you a parcel at intervals. I have 
some choice books of travel that will please your 
son.” 

“And won’t you tell me where you are hiding 
yourself ? Remember, not a soul shall know.” 

“Some day, perhaps ;” kindly, gently, yet firm- 
ly said. 

“Tell me now; why keep this a secret from 
me? If you but knew a tithe of what I have 
gone through in my solicitude, you would not hes- 
itate like this.” 

. “But why should I? I, dead to the world, and 

happily contented thus;” his thoughts wandering 
to his darling, the one comfort of many years, 
reared with such care, and guarded so jealously. 

“Would you not care to learn how things are 
going—how my lady is received, how she looks 

and acts, and if I see the shadow of a change, or 
least bias in your favor ?” 

“T should.” 

“Then let me write to you. I will furnish 
most faithful records of all you would care to 
know.” 

“T have a friend—an old country clergyman 
in the north: write me under cover to him.” 

She turned her head away as though aggrieved. 
“And am I so little worthy of your confidence ? 
Time was when you thought differently. Ah me! 
Absence makes esteem grow colder.” 

“Not so, my friend; and if I do not tell you, 
"tis from no distrust; but I have resolved to live 
apart from all and every old association.” 

“Alone?” The keen eyes were upon him this 
time; and she noticed that he flushed and did 
not immediately reply. 


121 


“T understand,” she murmured, in a low and 
interested voice, “ you are not alone.” 

“No. Iam not alone.” 

“And J admire you for it, the wounded heart 
needed this; it is well. Is—is she very pretty ? 
But J know she is, with your fastidious sense of 
beauty.” 

“Very beautiful; and as charming as she is 
beautiful.” 

“Oh! but you must tell me more now—tell 
me, that I too may love her.” 

“Little to tell, save that she has grown up be- 
neath my care, so you may rest satisfied I shall 
never again suffer as I have suffered once; if 
you but knew, my friend, the intensity of my love 
for—” 

“Yes?” Rapt, and with eagerness. 

“What matter names? See, here is her por- 
trait; I brought it to bear me company on my 
journey.” 

The lady looked long, with a hard, critical look ; 
the criticism came. 

“Young! <A good face, attractive, I should 
think, in the life; these firmer lines at the mouth 
denote—” 

“Yes?” In his anxiety he stood up, and over 
her as she held the picture. 

“ Faithlessness ? And she laid it down as 
though it burned her fingers, while he, clutching 
convulsively at her chair, gasped, ; 

“Whatever makes you think that ?” 

“Well, women, you know, can tell so quickly.” 
And she looked up coyly yet archly in his face, 
as though compromising herself by admitting so 
much. ‘Was I not the first to open your eyes 
to—to—you know ?” 

He nodded, with an expression of anguish. 

“You must be careful.” 

“T have been careful; if you knew all, you 
would say so.” 

“Then tell me all; I may help you. I can 
sympathize with you; heart and soul I am one 
with all your plans.” 

He smiled sadly. 

“In spite of my life’s sorrow, I am fortunate 
in finding sympathy with your sex. I have a 
most thoughtful person in my house who acts as 
her companion, and is truly mindful of my com- 
fort; a gentlewoman like yourself, she has the 
same delicacy and forethought.” 

‘“‘T am very interested; tell me her name, that 
even I may think gratefully of one so mindful 
of yourself.” 

Holding the portrait to the light again, and 
narrowly examining certain traits, discoverable 
only to those of her ability perhaps, she added, 
“And your friend, this Mrs.—” 

“ Brandon.” 

“Is companion to Miss—” 

“Lena St. Aubyn.” 

“Yes, and very nice; you must let me have 
this portrait to copy—no, don’t refuse me, please 
—that I may look on it sometimes; love it for 
your sake.” 

The request was put in so tremulously tender 
a tone, and with such a world of womanly friend- 
ship underlying it, he consented to this also. 

“‘ And now tell me where I may send it to you. 
What, still hesitating? But you are not afraid 
that I shall steal your treasure ?” (banteringly). 

“No.” And he told her. Then she thanked 
him, and wrote it upon a piece of paper, together 


122 


with the names Zena St. Aubyn and Mrs. Bran- 
don. Then carefully, with characteristic neat- 
ness, she folded the picture up in a sheet of clean 
white paper, and placed it in her bosom. 

“ And now it is a mutual understanding be- 
tween us; I am to write you all transpiring here, 
and you are to write me all your little hopes and 
fears.” 

“‘ Agreed, my friend ; 
winter pleasantly.” 

“ Ay,” she said; in a hoarse voice, His Maar hid fi 

“You have a cold.” 

“What else can I expect, with half the walls 
down? But I must be going; so sorry I can 
not ask you to the Cottage, which would be more 
comfortable—” 

“Thanks; this will do; I would rather pass 
the night in my home—my fathers’ home. Good- 
night; may you be recompensed for all!” 

““T hope so,” said the lady to herself, devoutly, 
while she wrapped the shaw] about her, and quick- 
ly passed over the ground home. 

First, the veriest mixing of brandy and water, 
where, in a precise little glass, the spirit and the 
sugar and the water were arranged with the ut- 
most neatness; next, to add a postscript to Lor- 
ry’s letter, of which the unusual feature was pre- 
sented of a postscript thrice the length of the 
letter, the closing lines being: 


*twill serve to pass the 


“T will send the portrait to-morrow, and you 
must study it carefully. You know your course; 
follow it: first find the girl out, next win her 
love; and I think it will not be half distasteful 
to you. Leave all the rest to me. Good-night. 
May all guardian angels watch over and prosper 
you, and preserve you virtuous and good! Your 
loving and devoted mother, eve” 


ee 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 
THE DEALER IN FOREIGN BIRDS. 


October: Brighton very full: one of the most 
crowded seasons for years; the King’s Road in 
the afternoon a busy scene of comfortable wealth : 
pathways thronged, and the drive a block of 
carriages. It was rather chilly on the piers ; be- 
sides, nobody walked on the piers in the after- 
noon, keeping to the paved boulevard alongside 
the shops. Upon a sunny afternoon more an- 
cient families, more aristocratic men and well- 
dressed women, were here to be seen than any 
where else in her Majesty’ s dominions. <A con- 
tinuous stream of carriages, some of new and 
somewhat rakish build, some that had belonged 
to the fathers and had come down with the rest 
of the property, some of quiet, unobtrusive ele- 
gance, and many paneled with the noblest heral- 
dic ensigns of England; horses, sleek, glossy, the 
handsomest to be found upon a road; dogs on 
the easy trot behind, or seated impudently in the 
vehicles—little dogs and big dogs, and dogs that 
were no dogs at all, being merely balls of fluffy 
whiteness. What a panorama of life—of life 
in high places! And to be sure there was a 
glimpse here and there of quite a different stra- 
tum—just a hint of some other order, of which 
these knew little: the girl with the basket of 
roses, the man with the penny hat guards, the re- 
spected firm with the Punch and Judy, the old 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


dame with the lace, the merchant in brand 'y-balls, 
the blind man, the fancier with toy puppies, and 
a man driving a truck along—a small platform 
truck with a ledge, and upon it a wall of diminu- 
tive cages, wherein fluttered and piped, as not 
liking the noise, a quantity of feathered captives. 
The man wheeling this concern before him was 
not of prepossessing visage; he had the outward 
and visible sign of the P.R., and a cast and bust 
popularly described as of the bull design. His 
caravan bore upon its seasoned side this inscript: 


Joun BEEcu, 
DEALER IN ForeIGN Birps, 
106 VinEGAR Street, 
Hackney Roan, 
Lonpon. 


Times had been bad with Mr. Beech. One day 
on London Bridge he met another gentleman— 
a gentleman in the penny-whip line. There was 
fraternal feeling between these two, and they cel- 
ebrated the meeting at the nearest public-house ; 
there Mr. Beech disclosed that he was “ down on 
his luck, and didn’t know what to make out o’ 
the cussed City!” Whereupon the other gentle- 
man, who also was destitute of prepossessing at- 
tractions, said, ferociously, ““I never knowed no 
good come of it yet; it’s too chuck full o’ they 
furreners !” 

‘““Himported two an’ a ’alf dozen from Lea 
Bridge this werry week, most on Sunday!” <And- 
having thus reproachfully vindicated the foreign 
interests, Mr. Beech buried the echo in the re- 
cesses of a pewter pot. 

“Tt’s the warments from the Continent as is 
taking money out o’ the pockets o’ the ’onest ! 
But I ’ad the crackest time as ever I ’ad in my 
purfession down at Brighton yonder; that’s whur 
the folks spend the money, an’ no mistake!” And 
the Foreign Dealer caught at it, and thought to do 
a thriving business, once get to Brighton; so to 
Brighton he came, ‘leaving the establishment i in- 
Vinegar Street, with its sundry accumulation of 
horrors, in the experienced hands of Mr, John 
Beech, junior: an emphatic repetition of the deal- 
er, with the heightening conferred by a protracted 
penal graduation, It. may be mentioned there 
was also contingent upon the establishment in 
Vinegar Street a Mrs. John Beech, senior, and a 
Mrs, John Beech, junior, likewise not character- 
ized by either the graces which adorn or the beau- 
ties which embellish the poetical form of woman. 
The elder Mrs. John Beech had been married to 
her present lawful husband exactly thirty years, 
and every day of every year of the thirty the grace 
before meat had been a most furious quarrel. — 
Mr. and Mrs. John Beech, junior, settled their lit- 
tle differences at the same time in another part 
of the room; thus the abode in no sense partook 
of the character of a Quaker settlement. Mrs. 
John Beech, senior, had cause for discontent, 
even for expression of that discontent, since her 
husband, her son, and her son’s wife were ever 
arrayed in battle against her; the poor soul had 
a sorry time of it; her hair was gray, her face was 
wrinkled, and the years were going, and never a 
kind word out of any of them; but she still fought 
with the best—all her sex of Vinegar Street were 
afraid of her—would fight to the end. Bird seed, 
and she had little else, developed the muscle, and 
this cadaverous female fought like a trooper. 
Her daughter-in-law spent most of her time in 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the street. She had as distinctively al fresco a 
taste as any ruddy-faced daughter of Epsom—a 
vagrant, roving, conversational, thirsty, and war- 
like taste it was. The Beeches, perhaps, were 
neither better nor worse than their neighbors, but 
they certainly made their existence more palpa- 
ble, at least to the sense of hearing. It is nota 
gratifying picture, and our lines have fallen upon 
any thing but pleasant places; yet such was the 
abode of ornithology this dealer had temporarily 
departed from. And he had been doing uncom- 
monly well in the wealthy southern town, making 
money fast, so many bringing little ones here with 
whom to wish was to have. 

And there was a particular little one whose 
name was Rose, with whom especially to wish 
was to have, in so far as a tall and stately friend 
was concerned. Thus when Rose wished for ca- 
naries as companions for her love-birds, no prom- 
ise was made, as was usual with him, but mental 
note was taken, and the wish would be borne in 
mind until realized. Therefore when Mr. Gar- 
land (who would rather deal with such than at 
the rented and taxed fine shops, where they knew 
him by sight, and would go upon some excuse to 
their inner rooms and bring the rude to stare be- 
tween tiers of cages) met the Dealer in Foreign 
Birds, he hailed him, desiring he would call at 
his house in the evening, which the dealer, touch- 
ing his rabbit-skin cap, thankfully promised, and 
was there to time with his varied collection. The 
gentleman saw the man in the servants’ hall, 
where the cages were ranged upon a sideboard. 

“You guarantee these are from the Canaries, 
my friend ?” 

““On my solemn hoath an’ davy, yer worship !”’ 
The dealer conferred this title from awesome rec- 
ollections of a magistrate before whom he was 
once cajoled by overpersuasive officers, and who 
wore a white neckcloth. 

The Minister took one of the birds from its 
cage with exquisite tenderness. Upon the man- 
tel-piece was a Saucer containing some liquid and 
a brush; he passed this lightly over the wing, 
and so quickly and carefully as not even to alarm 
the little captive, which, so far from fluttering 


- with extremity of fear at the unwonted procedure, 


rested calmly peaceful: itis all in the touch, as 


Beethoven said. The dealér watched the opera- 


tion with fuming dismay, and shuffled about, look- 


’ ing uneasily toward the door, and thinking this 


grave, methodical exposer of his rascality more 
like the magistrate than ever, Mr. Garland re- 
turned him the bird with one wing brown and 
the other wing yellow; still he did not look stern 
and severe, did not flash fine and imprisonment 
out of one eye, and ruin with starvation out of 
the other. To the man’s amazement the Minis- 
ter’s eyes looked kindly, although sadly, upon 
him, while a softened light, scarcely a smile, vet 
very pleasant upon the handsome face, changed 
the whole aspect: and the man, instead of feel- 
ing browbeaten and discomfited, not to say fright- 
ened, was at ease, although overcome by astonish- 
ment. The Minister, with hands behind him, 
looking carelessly at the line of cages, then ask- 
ed the man, kindly beyond description, 

“Did you ever try to get an honest living ?” 

“Times out o’ number, yer honor; an’ the fust 
I went to jist looked at me an’ says, ‘Take on a 
’ang-dog feller like you! why, it’s on yer face that 
ye’re born to be ’anged!’ I says,‘Thank ye!’ 


123 


and was ’spectful, though I’d like to ’a ’ad him 
out on Plaistow Marshes. some Sunday mornen ; 
and the next I went to for work called th’ over- 
seer, and bade him ‘turn the jail-bird out o’ the 
yard, only cos my ’air was cropped so short, yer 
honor, which I allow come of being convicted, 
and I an’ a pal serving fourteen year; but as the 
good chaplain said, only the day afore we left, 
‘There’s many a year afore ye yet, and, I ’ope, a 
’onest life,’ and it’s hard I’ve tried to gain sich!” 
He was passing his arm briskly over the rabbit- 
skin cap as though refurbishing the constitu- 
tion, 

““T believe this land to be a difficult one in 
which to regain the honest standing, once lost.” 

‘“* An’ when you never ’ad none, as I never ’ad, 
it’s doublesome dif’cult. But I’m sorry, an’ cer- 
tain, to ’a put. some o’ the natives in the lot I 
brought yer honor to chuse from; it’s ’ere is the 
African, and gems they be!” 

Therewith he brought forward three birds sat- 
isfying the representation in every way, and these 
the Minister purchased, also the entire stock of 
colored ones, with the remark, “ I suppose in the 
case of a shower of rain the birds will return to 
their old form?” The man nodded. He could 
afford to act truthfully with this munificent pa- 
tron. 

“Now,” said the Minister, purchase and pay- 
ment effected, ‘I have no possible interest in advis- 
ing you upon any thing; but as a man with feeling 
I do offer you this friendly caution, and it bears 
its own encouragement along with it—try again 
what honesty, and with honesty truth, will do for 
you; and if you meet with similar rebuff, try again, 
and go on trying till the last penny is spent ; then 
—well, come to me, and you shall have a pound 
or two toward helping you still totry on. There, 
never mind the thanks, my friend, to me: thank 
Him who enables me sometimes to be of some 
such use as this.” 

With a courteous bow the Minister left the 
hall, the dealer standing dumfounded with the 
first kind words that had ever encouraged him 
to better deeds, always excepting those of the 
chaplain at the penal settlement, whose words, ut- 
tered to all alike, if pointing the way, yet lacked 
the grand humanity witnessed here. And one of 
the maids held the door for the dealer to pass out, 
not with servant’s impudence, but with kindly 
civility. It was with a peculiarly softened ex- 
pression the man looked back at the Minister’s 
house. So far as we know, it might have been 
with veneration, with gratitude. 

“T’ll be kinder to the wife arter this,” he mut- 
tered, jogging on with the empty truck. 

Meantime the Minister had opened the doors 
of the cages and set the feathered colony at lib- 
erty, all but the canaries, which he knew would 
fall upon ill fortune in the colder land. While 
opening the door of the last of the cages, after 
the others had flown, the inmate, startled maybe 
at its sudden liberty, fluttered to his vest and 
nestled there. ‘Oh, that Ihad wings as a bird!” 
he said, while tenderly removing it, and opening 
his hand to the serene depth of blue, where the 
evening star—the star. of hope—shone its lumi- 
nous invitation, ‘for then would I flee away, and 
be at rest.” 

Next time Rose came, the gift awaited her, and 
highly delighted the child appeared. ‘‘ They shall 
be taken to our house, where they will have more 


124 


sun and air.” She alluded to Mr. Blake’s coun- 
try house out Bramber way, some ten miles off, 
the well-to-do chemist, like many another worthy 
councilor, possessing his comfortable country res- 
idence. It was here those ponies were which Mrs. 
Blake had so longed to improve her state withal ; 
it was here Rose caught the bloom of the flower 
of her name, and passed all her happiest home- 
time. A modern dwelling, yet overspread with 
the cheery ivy, and with valuable garden ground 
encircling ; a dwelling bespeaking affluence, where, 
as the lady observed, ‘‘a duchess might be con- 
tent to live;” and looking well from the road, a 
great point with Mrs. Blake, to whom such per- 
spective was second only to comfort; and read- 
ing imposing in reports, with JosepH Biaxg, Esq., 
Ivy Houss, as the donor of a church subscription, 
or chairman of the District Board: which reports 
Mrs. Blake used to keep folded up in the linen 
_ press, with lavender, to impart a country odor, 
and musk to keep off the moth. Imposing also 
on the green gate posts, where to the fore the 
legend ran, 
Ivy Hovse. 
VISITORS. 
And to the rear, 
Ivy Hovsr. 
SERVANTS. 


Thus “our house” was an institution in the 
Blake family, and was said to be supported in 
style. Quite recently a page-boy had been add- 
ed, and little Rose, with the true child’s appetite 
for novelties, was full of the page that afternoon 
of calling to see her birds; and it was this for 
him to do, and that for him to do, and he was so 
good he would do any thing for her, and the rest. 
fo all of which the preacher listened with the 
gentle attention always displayed when the child 
was talking, but with a sadder shade than ordi- 
nary passing subtly athwart the brow. 

The reigning favorite was conspicuous by his 
absence on the King’s Road. Come upon him 
unexpectedly where one would, it was never 
there. Once a lady said to him, “ We never see 
you on the road!” He replied, “ My study and 
parish really occupy too much of my time.” It 
was no wonder; the world was his study, the 
world his parish ; and so long as a broken heart 
was needing solace, an impoverished family need- 
ing help, an imprudent youth or maiden needing 
guidance, a sick person needing medicine and 
nourishment, and talking to and reading to and 
cheering up, so long his absence would be con- 
spicuous from that or any pleasure-track. He 
dared not be idle, first, from principle; next, 
from fear; for to be idle was to brood—ever a 
dangerous expedient with so finely strung a soul, 
and with one so disposed to look back mournful- 
ly upon a procession of past sorrows. 

One of the distinguished patronesses of the 
road had, however, returned to it—Lady Guil- 
mere; and the sight of the lady gladdened many 
choice friends who had not thought to see her 
there again. Her ladyship was one of the most 
charming representatives of high life to be met 
with in the drawing-rooms. Not beautiful: littke 
in that face save its nobility and genuine- 
ness: yet how excellent a union! Not young: 
her ladyship was advanced in life, yet wore her 
years with such placid and happy quietness, they 
seemed half afraid to touch this gracious gentle- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


woman. Not dressy: her ladyship dressed others, 
and was content herself with unassuming gear. 
By no one who heard the marvelous eloquence, 
by no one who read the impassioned writings, 
was the Minister more truly esteemed and be- 
loved than by this refined gentlewoman, whose 
one word of heart-felt commendation outweighed 
a crowded room’s applause. 


ee ee 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 
“)T CLING {Ube ole 


CLosE upon the solitude of the far-reaching 
downs stood an old black cottage, and a garden 
where herbs and grasses flourished, and a few 
vegetables. It was all very poor and comforitless, 
and the last place where one would expect to find 
books and other evidences of scholarship; yet on 
a rude table there was a roll of writing, and against 
the bare walls some deal shelves, whereon stood 
ancient volumes, mostly upon botany.: A mere 
earthen floor, holes in the roof, and a rent in the 
door; yet writing materials and sundry worn ap- 
pliances of studious hours. 

An old man’s coat was hanging beside the 
patched jacket of a boy. The writing on the roll 
was difficult to decipher; parts where the writer’s 
hand had been very tremulous; parts where the 
ink was blurred by tear-stains. 

And the writing ran: ‘‘ Why is it Age is bitter ? 
If by chance I walk through the streets of the 
town, after one of my long rambles, or to sell the 
herbs at the chemist’s, the young people are rude 
to me, thinking, perhaps, I do not notice it or do 
not feel it; they jeer at the figure I cut, call me 
scarecrow, and grimace at these wrinkles. Isee 
all, but take no notice; the Lord bears witness. 
Outside, the boys are ready with their shouting, 
‘Old Rag-picker! I am no rag-picker. ‘Old 
Jew! Iam no Jew. Poor, through love of: 
my science, which has been more to me than 
wealth; very poor. And old: yet I see not why 
Age should be so bitter. Poor and old, that’s it. 
A mended coat ; and, as I live, another hole to-day ; 
split again, well as I darned away at that rent 
while Arthur slept. 

“T don’t so much mind what they say when I 
am alone, but it tortures me if he hears: lest it 
warp the love. 

“The rough lads throw stones at our poor cot- 
tage, but Arthur and I do not care, we are fogeth- 
er. Great storms of stones might come, and, so 
they did not divide us, well: the boy’s love makes 
the old man strong, patient, courageous. 

“They say I starve him and myself too on the 
green food ; after all, what matters their idle talk ? 
We know. Very happy, we need not care; yet 
one broods upon it. Some such wicked word may 
one day make the lad change. I hang so on his 
happiness with me, it keeps life in my old heart ; 
to see him gambol on the downs to-day almost 
made me young again; sotender! ‘Lean on me, 
grandfather! How you are shaking! And the 
arms will twine about me, gentle as a girl’s. 

“Tt seems rather hard to us now and then, that 
big town being so full of wealth and we so poor, 
and my loving lad is well-nigh jacketless. Well, 
we will mend and mend the old one: old, but 
precious, every shred of it, from being so long 
worn by him. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“T have given up clinging to my Book; it lies 
there on the shelf, getting yellow and seared as 
the wood-side leaves between its pages; yet the 
hours and days and years I have spent upon it, 
leaned on it, cherished hope of it!) Unknown, a 
quarter of a life under the faded sheets, and all 
the fruit of all my labor. One day when I am 
gone it may be known, taken in hand by those 
who will esteem it for what it teaches; and it 
will benefit Arthur, so I will not repine. Yet, for 
all that, it’s sad to see it there, loving it next the 
boy ; and it brings back remembrance of his moth- 
er, dear as my very soul. I cry over it still, but 
cling to it no longer. 

“To-day, crossing a square in the town, nurse- 
girls drew their little charges away with, ‘ Old 
Bogie, dears, eats little children!’ and ran by 
mockingly. I would not let any see the depth of 
my wound, for I love the children all. . I toiled 
home painfully, and found Arthur hoeing at the 
bit of ground, and I never kissed him as warmly. 
Despised, I am comforted; his love soothes, his 
tenderness heals. God bless his sunburned beau- 
ty, and clustering curls graceful as the ferns of 
autumn ! 

“It was a poor place to bring the child to, 
when their home was broken up, and my daugh- 
ter departed for Australia, but he did not seem 
to mind, and has learned to love it and his old 
grandfather wonderfully. I somehow never 
thought she would come back when I took the 
lad. She was always a restless one, was Mary; 
and now I hope she won’t, if it’s to take the lad 
away; it would-be death to part with him after 
all these years. Mercy! how the wind blows! 
Another piece of the roof off! 

“When the wind blows shrill, and pierces the 
chinks and crannies I am forever trying to re- 
pair, we just gather close for warmth, glad of our 
shelter, begrudging nobody a better. If rain 
comes in, we shift our seats, and place a bowl 
to catch it, feeling grateful to the Lord for softer 
water which makes mellower tea of our herbs. 
We make the best of every thing: we are éo- 

ether ! 

“What if we are ridiculous figures? It is 
something to live to cause laughter; and doubt- 
less many a dainty dame does not laugh any too 
much; so we do good in our humble way, and 
are happy to be of service. 

“People think me dry and withered as yon- 
der bunches hanging from the roof; that does 
not matter; there are those about, poor old souls, 
whom doctors never visit, that bless our coming, 
and think me any thing but dead to feeling. No; 
perhaps it would be better if I could feel a little 
less; Age is all too feeling, and this is why Age 
is bitter. 

“The other day a good man looked in; he ask- 
ed my name and where I went to church. ‘No- 
where,’ I said; then he was good enough to ap- 
pear shocked ; to tell me I was chief of sinners, 
and to pronounce me damned. I thought it 
harsh, but took no heed, for I was trimming our 
lavender, and the sweetness of its breath seemed 
to set all right. I bowed respectfully, and re- 
moved the old cap as in presence of the priest; 
but yon great hill is our church,and I want no 
other music to take me near to heaven than the 
music of my young boy’s voice. The rest I leave 
to Him who made that priest as well as me. 

“Sometimes, watching Arthur in his sleep, 


125 


e 

tired, I doze, and dream that I am rich, and can 
clothe him well and buy him books; and some- 
times that I am poor, and he is discontented, and 
would be away, and has longing for other faces: 
and I start as men awake from sleep of the white 
poppy, faint as one coming forth from fever: and 
I kneel by the old straw mattress with such dread 
yearning one would think it had been reality, 

“Young plants will trail from the stem. I 
have been more moved than usual by a slender 
circumstance that yet weighs upon my spirits. 
I sometimes send the boy down to the shop 
where my herbs are taken; he has but to leave 
them and receive the payment. A few days 
since, some one at the shop spoke rudely to him, 
with a coarse comment upon his length of hair: 
the little daughter of the house, in hiding by the 
desk, overheard, and coming forth, beaming with 
smiles and most kind consolation, gave him more 
than the worth of the herbs, and made all worth 
seem valueless in his young foolish eyes—my 
poor, poor child! Taken by the soft light in her 
eyes, he came home to me for the first time 
thoughtful. Ifelt chilled. It was wrong of me, 
perhaps; but, oh, my love for my darling passes 
estimation by common laws! I was digging 
mould about the marjoram beds. ‘Come and 
help me, Arthur,’ said I, gently, and he obeyed 
with the old sweet obedience, but this time with- 
out looking up in my face with that light I love 
so well: the pleasant smile that, seen below the 
sunset flush, alvays makes me think of those 
upon the golden shore; he did not speak, went 
to work indifferently, and presently left the spade, 
and went and sat down in the cottage. I watch- 
ed it all from under the brim of my old straw 
hat. I felt dreadful pain, and went on digging 
as though digging my grave. When twilight 
came I taxed him kindly—‘ What is it, Arthur 
dear ; don’t mind telling me, do ye?’ Pressing 
it half carelessly, half earnestly, but with a silent 
prayer that it might be nothing, it came out 
with his own innocent candor, but with a deep- 
ened color, that even in the twilight glowed upon 
me with its fatal beauty. I would not let him 
know the pain or see the tears; and, twining our 
creeper by the door, entered into his boyish feel- 
ing with my old heart wrung afresh at each new 
charm, described so rapidly when he found me a 
gentle confidant. I reasoned with him, yet most 
lovingly and firmly, as the strength was given 
me. It caused me more emotion, knowing the 
thing to be natural, but I said, ‘Love the plants 
a little longer, Arthur; they are God’s young, and 
will never fail you, as the young of men are like 
to do; never build your happiness on such; 
avoid the town, my dear; the further from it and 
the higher upon these hills, the nearer to heaven!’ 
He went to bed early, with heightened color, and, 
all the long hours I sat by him watching, was 
restless. Next day he went on the downs to get 
me some roots from among the furze plants 
where the wild violets grow. It seemed to me 
he was longer gone than of yore, and I could not 
work, I kept looking up the hill, straining my 
eyes to catch the distant glimpse of his coming 
back with basket and book as usual. Presently 
he came, running joyously, and bounded in with 
the news that he had seen her; she had been 
there at play with other companions, and had 
wished him a sweet good-morning! It was 
nothings I laughed it off; but sitting that even- 


126 


‘ 
ing reading while he slept, I heard him whisper 
her name, and it chilled me more than all the 
gusts of wind that ever howled about the cottage. 
I have no Bible. I use an old Milton I bought 
for fourpence in the market, in its place. I went 
to it for comfort, but only found the old sadness 
over again, of cherished ones turning ingrates, 
and wounding those that had lived but in their 
truth. I have not moved much in the world of 
men, but I know the ending to be ever the same. 
I would not have my courtly lad befooled by the 
silk-frocked Miss of a wealthy trader, who would 
toss him to the winds scouring the downland 
without so much as a farewell. But my darling 
and I must suffer, because forsooth his fancy 
has fallen upon this pretty child of the town. 
Her father is a man of station among his fellows, 
and would be much put out to know his daugh- 
ter had spoken with a ragamuffin. Yet it was 
only to-day, the very man, walking up here, came 
and asked me about the pains in my back, kind- 
ly promising to send me an embrocation. (It 
would have made me upright had he said his 
child was gone to France, to school.) My boy 
came running out, and doffed his cap to this great 
man, ‘A pretty lad, my friend! I’m wanting a 
page at my country house, which, you know, lies 
some ten good miles out. Let him come, and I 
will treat him well; what say you, boy, could you 
wait at table? Would you like the life? A lit- 
tle polishing, old friend, to erase effects of early 
training, and the boy might suit us very well: 
and be a good thing for himself; it’s a thousand 
pities hé should-be brought up like this! You 
won’t stand in the way of your boy’s advance- 
ment, I hope?’ ‘This is rather sudden, Sir,’ I 
murmured, clearly as my trembling would per- 
mit; my head was bowed, for I was crushed. 
He did not notice it, would have scouted the idea ; 
I continued my digging, vigorously, feeling thank- 
ful I was upon it when he called; dug my agony 
down, and shoveled mould thereon, and planted 
rue, while awaiting to hear what my boy would 
say, for I had left it with him. 

““<T will not stand in the way of my boy’s ad- 
vancement, Sir; let him decide between us.’ 

“And I would not look up, even if I had the 
strength, lest my darling should be influenced; 
but that moment I could not dig, these hands 
were powerless to raise the spade. How I trem- 
bled to catch the tone of his voice; how long it 
was in breaking upon me! I think it was a 
struggle with him; then I heard this, hesitating 
and falteringly, 

“¢T should like it, Sir, so my grandfather’s 
willing.’ 

“JT wanted something from the cottage, and 
went in-doors. How differentitlooked! I heard 
him say, ‘ Well, Pll send you some clothes, with 
your grandfather’s embrocation, to-morrow morn- 
ing,’ and he called ‘Good-day’ to me, but I could 
not answer; and then he strode off with heavy 
gold at play upon his spotless vest, and such an 
air as to say, ‘Another of Creation’s blunders 
about righted, I think! while I sat stupefied on 
this old stool, leaning elbows on table, face buried 
in my hands; until I felt Azs arms about me; and 
then I thrilled, but only to become icy cold all 
over. 

“Tt all happened so quickly; just that walk- 
ing up my little path, those few words, and all 
the old happy time was ages behind. I shrank 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


from his caress of. half remorse, lest yielding to 
it I should give way utterly—” 

A break in the writing, a half-finished page, 
even the mark where the pen had fallen from 
the writer’s hand upon the paper. en 

Strange loneliness in the place. The wind stir- 
ring the little jacket and rustling it against the 
old coat, as though it would creep therein and 
nestle. Bunches of dried herbs swaying discon- 
solately, as though searching for an accustomed 
hand. A spade, a stool, a tattered “‘ Milton,” with 
some wild flowers between the pages, and a trail 
of ivy. 

The remainder of the writing: 

“When, years ago, the first blow of my daugh- 
ter’s loss fell upon me, and left a loneliness so 
bitter it seemed no other would ever fill the void, 
I turned instinctively to my science; for the lone 
country walks seemed more in harmony with my 
darkened solitude of soul. Mary had seldom ac- 
companied me in the old days, and there was 
nothing to recall her; but the boy has always 
been my companion; we have rambled over the 
hills and through lanes and woods until every 
bush and plant is a symbol of his presence. How 
can I ever go one of those walks again? His 
young bright eyes have sought my choicest treas- 
ures—those hanging on the wall with yellow tick- 
ets are all of his finding. I have never sold those; 
they are very dry, almost shrivel at the touch, 
and the writing on their labels has faded away; 
but much as I need money, I will not sell those, 
for theirs is a language deeper than botany. And 
I am an old man since I hung them there; they 
called me old then: ‘Old weed-picker,’ boys of 
the township shouted. It was not true, but no 
matter now. He made the youth, and kept the 
life in my heart, and now— 

“Mercy! how the wind flickers this poor light ! 
And my fingers are numb with cold. I used to 
notice neither. It is horrible now I am all alone. 
I might die; not a soul to hear my prayer that 
he should be kept in ignorance; not a hand to 
place .his little coat beside me on the bed. I 
have put ‘it by the fire with his shoes, as I used 
to do when he ran in wet; I talk to them, saying, 
‘Arthur will soon come; Arthur will soon come!’ 
Oh, my heart so yearns over them, God help me! 
Yet these holes in the dear old boots. And I 
couldn’t mend them, try I never so deftly. It 
was better, Arthur; thou wast in the right, my 
love! 

“No little hand to be laid again upon my 
shoulder, while the pretty face makes the cottage 
brighter than a palace. I cover his bed while I 
sit writing here; my eyes wi/l wander to where 
they used to rest upon the straggling curls, and 
cheeks flushed by dreams; and now the cold bare 
wall, the dim, drear couch! No boyish play of 
swift young feet pattering upon the fioor will - 
awaken me to-morrow. I can scarcely think him 
gone; the very flowers he gathered last are hard- 
ly withered. .I try not to see his jacket hanging 
upon the peg when I come in, tired, and worried 
by the lads shouting, ‘ Where’s yer boy, master ? 
Starved yer boy? Sold yer boy? Where’s curly- 
head, master?’ Now, indeed, I dread to hear the 
stones they throw upon the roof, and the gusts 
of wind tearing through the split*walls; but he 
is in the warm and in comfort. Ah, me! I sup- 
pose he often sees the pretty child; my moth will 
flutter around until scorched; then his thoughts 


A MODERN 


will return to me, and until then—TI shall be for- 
gotten. 

“T shudder to set foot beyond my bit of garden 
ground; I am sure to see fair boys at pleasant 
play, and these recall mine own. Sometimes a 
page-boy from one of the large houses crosses 
my path—he can not understand why I draw my 
hand across my eyes and hurry on. He is so 
like my Arthur. I looked so long and wistfully 
upon him once, in a sort of daze, that he came 
up and asked me if I’d called him; many people 
were about, or I must have stooped to kiss him, 
I hungered for it so. 

“T am trying to bear my trouble, but I have 
not the strength I had; it is harder even than I 
feared; but it is for his sake. 

“JT wonder if he ever thinks of me? I would 
not have him know how much I think of him. 
It would spoil the contentment of his now at- 
tractive life. I must suffer in silence and solli- 
tude. It is better than worrying any with my 
foolish old repining. 

“ Dare I write it ?—I am sorry now I consented, 
even though to benefit him; there was time for 
this after I was dead and gone. How I wish I 
could remember that part of the Word which 
tells of when the silver cord is loosed and the 
golden bowl is broken,-when the keepers of the 
house do tremble, and those that look out of the 
windows are darkened! Nobody would lend an 
old man like me the Word to copy it, I doubt. 
I’m in nobody’s parish save the rook’s. 

“ Dear little sock !—He wore it. My God! how 
I loved Mary’s boy! 

“The Book—my learning and my ruin, my half- 
treasure, the labor of my life—oh, what is it to 
my living joy! I would give it, my all, myself, 
myself, for but one more year, one other year, with 
him, with all the love restored, as it used to be. 
Ah, blood upon my lip? I will write no more to- 
night, I think an aged heart breaks easier than 
men deem likely.” 


“Lest Mary returns when I am gone, and seeks 
her lad, I still write more. I had thought last 
night to have sealed up the sheets. It is well 
Mary should know, and that he is happy, and cared 
for, and how the old forsaken man sacrificed him- 
self for love of hers. 

“Think of me, Mary, if you ever read this, as 
you never thought of me before. Think of me 
with pity. He has gone, Mary—gone; will nev- 
er return to me as of old. Do they ever, once 
the tie is snapped? Did you? 

“This day I made the weary pilgrimage only 
to see the back of that large house where he has 
gone. It was a toilsome way, but I kept think- 
ing of his angel face; one glimpse and I would 
have lived anew; but they set the dog on me 
for a tramp, and—I—saw—him—not. Oh, the 
horrible drag back to this poor place! and now, 
to-night, the still more utter loneliness. I must | 
see him once again. If I could but do so with- | 
out his knowing it, for I dread unsettling him 
now. He would grow restless and unhappy. I 
have it! Night! | 

“T can conceal myself within the garden shrub- 
bery; perhaps he draws down the blinds; I may 
see him thus. 

“With what strength I cling to this! Would 
I could put the yearning far apart! God will sus- 
tain me. « I am to see my boy again! 


MINISTER. 127 


“But what a walk!. How dark and lonely! 
Already the shadows seem darkening, and I feel 
I shall never see the little cottage more, and that 
this will be my last look upon the darling face. 
Tam not sad, soI do but see him. Shall 1?—shall 
I? What miles of suspense! I will kneel and 
pray that my strength may last till reaching there, 
that I may see him. 

“T will set the place in order; I may never do 
So again. 

“Should any thing happen to me, I would ask 
whoever may come to'this poor place and may 
read this, my last desire, to treat the plants with 
tenderness ; they are not valuable, but they know 
my hand. The dried ones are classed according 
to ‘their species. All that is left is Arthur’s. 
When older, he will value the Book as my writ- 
ing. I would ask, were it not for the trouble it 
will give, that when they throw these aching bones 


-away, some of my plants may be placed near; 


they loved me of old, and I love them. 

“I may be wrong to write thus, but, after all, 
it can be destroyed. It is Well for the aged to be 
ready, and my life has welled out with my love. 
I set my heart on three in my time—my Girl, my 
Boy, and my Book—and they all have failed to re- 
spond. It is quite time. 

“ Now, Arthur dear—” 


Through the afternoon and evening of the wet 
and windy day which followed, the old man made 
that toiling progress of love, and of devotion unto 
death. He reached the large house long after 
dusk had fallen. Cold gusts blew through the 
white hair, and tore the old coat asunder, and 
coursed up and down him, as though to tear the 
heart out for sport of a ghastly chase upon the 
wold. 

He concealed himself in a tangled thicket, so 
chill the very birds had departed thence. Reedy 
creaking and tapping of the sedge, and coppice 
growth sere with the autumn dryness, made weird 
utterance as he crouched waiting for the dark. 
Then he crept forth. 

Without one star to shed a ray of welcome, 
with the house rising black upon the pall-like 
sky, and trees a seeming retinue of shrouded sen- 
tinels, he crept with faltering, shaking steps. Ev- 
ery blind was drawn, the place was closed secure- 
ly for the night, and his sinking heart turned 
colder, and colder, and colder. 

He stole round to the side of the house. Ivy 
grew thick, and framed a small upper window, 
where a light shone behind curtains of dimity ; 
and because it was the sole light any where, or 
perchance by some Heaven-directed instinct, he 
kept his gaze, fast growing dim, upon that win- 
dow. It seemed a long time, and by faintness he 
had fallen to the ground, when one within, retir- 
ing for the night, came between the curtains, and 
the light gleamed a halo about the golden head. 
He saw a little form clad all in white, draped by 
the snowy curtains, and he knew his prayer was 
heard—that his darling, like a child-angel, was 
there to gladden the dying gaze; and, listen! 
Perhaps it was his nightly custom. The boy had 
opened the lattice, and turning to the direction of 
the little cottage beyond the downs, he called, 
“Good-night, dear grandfather, good-night!” then 
closed the window gently, and let the curtains 
drop. 

A stifled moan, a great wistful yearning of the 


128 


eyes, faint foam of blood upon the lips; then, 
like some faithful hound, he dragged himself 
close to the wall, to die beneath the window of 
his darling. He caught at a trail of the ivy and 
carried it to his lips, because that was near, and 
because the lad once loved it. And so—with the 
fond eyes turned upward to his room—he died; 
the ivy still upon the lips. — 

In a village grave-yard, nestled between hills 
that overlooked his cottage, is a simple mound, 
without stone or any symbol save this—a trail of 
ivy at the head, about a group of herbs. 


—_>—_—_-. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
THE RETURN OF ST. AUBYN. 


LENGTHENED seemed the lonely vigil in the an- 


cestral home; thrice the watchman without shook | 


himself, replenished the lamp, and passed off to 
sleep again; it was the death-like stillness and 
grayness that precede the dawn, and Lord Lindon 
stood in the great hall, below the shield bearing 
the emblazoned arms of his family; the scaffold- 
ing before it had been turned to account, a nar- 
row ledge of planks having served for a platform, 
whereby men had been enabled to refurbish the 
discolored surface. 

“ Alas!” he murmured, “can any restore the 
purity of our escutcheon?” And he passed on- 
ward to that romantic demesne, the garden. He 
witnessed the havoc neglect and decay had caused 
with feelings of profoundest melancholy: his boy- 
hood had there been joyous, Upon yon crumbling 
terrace a white-haired, benignant father had first 
led him to the throne of chivalry and honor, when 
he had promised his noble sire to be ever true to 
those instincts of their race; by that grim basin 
and dusky fountain he recalled a dignified lady 
of grave yet pleasant speech, and manners always 
gentle—his mother! She had sat beside it, tell- 
ing him of his grandfather, and grandfathers be- 
yond, and he recalled how he had sported with 
the dolphins in the sun for change, thinking one 
spray-dashed dolphin alive and all a-gleam was 
worth a dozen dead grandfathers mouldering in 
the vaults of Lindon. He thought of it now re- 
proachfully. The satyrs stared upon him with 
blear-eyed vacancy, and the night-lizard, crouched 
upon the shoulder of a nymph, faced the intruder 
from below her carved locks of stone. Flowers 
every where, wild and luxuriant, weeds growing 
rank and high, shrubs combining to prevent ad- 
vance, and trees that interlaced above formed a 
miniature forest awning. It was sad; it was 
beautiful. He quittéd it with mingled feelings, 
love for the old place predominant; and long be- 
fore the coming workmen had crossed the green, 
he had walked along Sleperton village, and the 
quaint High Street of old Seaborough, that verily 
seemed unchanged in a name. He reached Sea- 
borough station before even the large doors were 
unbolted by a drowsy porter, and waited in the 
dull, musty waiting-room the coming of a train. 
It was a time of dreariness. Upon the platform 
a lad swept the level boards with a broom fash- 
ioned in the shape of a rake, a man was cleaning 
the lamps, @ woman was upon her knees scrub- 
bing by the booking-place, a porter was sitting 
upon the weighing-machine, eating his breakfast 
from a saucer released from a handkerchief ; 


A MODERN 


MINISTER. 


flowers were trailing beyond the platform, where 
the master had a bit of garden ground, and where 
some local artist had designed SeaBorouGcH in 
oyster shells upon the bank of mould. A young 
girl came into the station—some comely country 
lass about the age of his girl at home; and he 
looked upon her kindly, asking if she had walked 
far that morning. ‘Yes, a goodish step, and 
would the train be long?” He could not tell 
her, knowing as little of it as did those grandfa- 
thers driven hither in their old-fashioned coaches. 
A young man, in black vestments of abbreviated 
pattern, entered noisily, and, unlocking with more 
noise the door of the ticket office, passed behind, 
where he made more noise still, banging books, 
fighting stools, thrashing a stray cat of which 
Seaborough had been despoiled all night, count- 
ing his coin, clicking the telegraph machine, ar- 
ranging that geographical puzzle the ticket cells, 
and was busy over much other preparatory. work ; 
midst of which his eminence the station-master 
entered, with a chrysanthemum in his button-hole 
and a carbuncle on his nose; this affliction evi- 
dently made him constitutionally cross, for he 
abused the servants all round, and made a rush 
at the country lass as though he would eat her. 

His lordship was glad to leave the place, dread- 
ing one or other of the gossips dropping in might 
recognize him, It was a chill, comfortless jour- 
ney to town, but he thought of home, and it 
made the distance shorter; why, he had not been 
away from Lena as long before, all the time they 
had been together. 

Later, he knew again, as on the previous day, 
that singular sensation of revisiting the great 
metropolis after an interval of several years, 
one of the most peculiar experiences that can be- 
fall one. ; 

By sunset he stood at the foot of the cliff 
whereon his house was built. Here could just 
be seen a glimpse of the chimney-stack above 
the trees: and, quickly following the track of 
bramble-bordered pathway that wound upward to 
the plateau, he was speedily before the gate, and 
ringing its sonorous summons lustily, half hoping 
his idol would herself hasten to admit him. It 
was a soft and light footstep advancing over the 
stone court, yet in his eagerness it seemed very 
slow, and he rated himself for his impatience. 
The gate was unlocked and unbolted, and there 
stood Mrs. Brandon, dreadfully black and white, 
with a fine lawn handkerchief in hand, with which 
she just brushed her eyes, as though removing 
traces of tears she had heroically checked. And 
he, so quick to discern all little things, stood dis- 
mayed before so vivid an appearance of emotion; 
and he thought at first his Lena had been willful, 
had been grieving this faithful guardian in his 
absence ; but when he remarked a deeper gloom 
than such would ‘warrant, and a stricken look, 
which he knew a woman might wear under 
weight of severest sorrow, he became alarmed in 
earnest, and hurriedly entreated to know the 
cause, 

“Will you kindly let me close the gate, Mr. 
St. Aubyn, and then step to my sitting-room ? 
And do not look so alarmed, Sir; I admit it is 
serious, yes, serious, but nothing, I hope, you 
may not set right; but do, pray, be calm! If 
you get so excited, I will not say a word!” 

His deathly paleness made even her pause on 
the threshold of the blasting revelation, — 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Tell me,” he said, breathlessly, as soon as he 
had entered, and clutching her wrist: ‘“ Lena?” 

“Ts well !” 

“Thank God!” sinking upon a chair; such 
wild and awful thoughts had flashed upon him. 
“ Bring her to me,” he begged, faint and shaken. 

The quiet woman stood beside him, and, with 
forbearance and deeply sympathetic utterance, 
entered upon the task. 

“You are of a brave nature, Mr. St. Aubyn. 
Brave natures are ever prepared for—for mis- 
fortune.” | : 

“What is the meaning of all this?” he cried, 
in agony. “If you have any thing to say, in mer- 
cy’s name say it; do not fear for me. Ah, I can 
guess! That man, John Beech, has been here; 
he has seen my darling, he has been rude, has 
frightened her. I understand it all.” 

“No, Sir, your enemies are nearer home—” 

“Heavens! What can the woman mean ? 
Speak it out, madam. What is this thing, that 
you must so beat about the bush with it? Re- 
member you have a man to deal with, to whom 
all this is child’s play.” His teeth were close 
set, hands convulsively doubled; and although 
so firm, she could see he trembled from head to 
foot, and she asked herself, ‘‘ Whatever was in 
the chit to produce all this commotion?” Then 
softly, and manifestly jvith delicate reluctance, 
she resumed the work of breaking her ill-omened 
news. 

“JT mean, Mr. St. Aubyn, we have cherished a 
viper in this house in that woman Martha Saxe.” 

“Tn Martha Saxe ?” 

“ Ay, in Martha Saxe. The day you left, Sir— 
But there, I—can—not, so it’s no use.” And, 
supremely affected, this good companion and 
guardian leaned back in her chair and wept a 
judicious little shower—not one tear too many 
or one too few, and all so quietly as though deep- 
ly felt; no vulgar outburst of vociferous grief 
such as poor Saxe would have indulged in, but 
this tranquil outpouring of her pathetic sympa- 
thy; and spite of the confusion of imaginary 
terrors, St. Aubyn thought how true a friend was 
this who felt so deeply. 

“Go on,” he said, gently and calmly ; “do not 
fear for me. I can bear any thing.” 

“The day you left, Sir, that woman left, went 
off without a word to any one. But this is not 
all; and you will please prepare for that sorrowful 
remainder I would most willingly keep back—” 

“Go on!” he spoke sternly, the words might 
have been iron-delivered. 

“Miss Lena has also disappeared—I do not say 
with her, but both left this house within ten min- 
utes of each other, as I ascertained; and if that 
base person has decoyed the dear young lady from 
her home, under pretense of complying with her 
oft-repeated wish to see the world, why, all I can 
say is, the woman ought to be handed over to jus- 
tice and severely punished.” 

She had not raised her voice, made no unpleas- 
ant disturbance, but the grave solemnity indicated 
her abhorrence of a heinous crime. She might 
have been the Goddess of Justice herself, so calm- 
ly stern was that denunciation. 

And he? Stood so utterly dumfounded no word 
would come. Answer it! How could he answer 
it? Suspect its truth! Why that even? His 
darling was stolen, or—had fled; and, remember- 
ing all that had transpired of late, the last seemed 

I 


129 


as probable. Either was too horrible for think- 
ing of ; but they pressed him sore, were merciless, 
would have him confront all their dark and awful 
meaning, and brought with them a surrounding 
of horrors so poignant, the man would have giv- 
en his right hand to swoon from their recollec- 
tion. But the presence was keen, vivid, piercing ; 
it flayed and scathed and crushed him; and with- 
out any word he strode off to his study, the door 
of which he tremblingly locked. On all sides were 
reminders of the child—half-completed paintings 
brought in for him to see, then left unfinished ; 
some dainty work in silk and wool, contrived in 
colors of his -choice; the couch and skins, her 
favorite seat, with the book she had just been 
reading; the sweet group of flowers her hand 
had gathered and placed in the vase beside his 
desk: and in'the extremity of his pain he looked, 
half nervously, round the room for any sign, a 
line or two:in the pretty handwriting, some ex- 
planation, the least token of farewell, but there 
was nothing. 

At any time the effect of this blow would have 
been prostrating, but following upon the ordeal 
of returning to the old home, it found him al- 
ready tried and weak, less able than ever to un- 
dergo this second faithless desertion. 

“T must be a man!” The hollow desolate ut- 
terance gave the lie to that resolute yet despair- 
ing tone. “I must bestir myself; there is not a 
moment to be lost; they may be traced; I may yet 
rescue her; I will not sit down under the crushing 
blow while my darling, so helpless, so innocent, 
is adrift upon the world! If she wished to leave 
me and— Oh! this can not be; it would be her 
ignorance and longing for novelty, natural under 
the circumstances. I will try not to think ill of 
her; I dread it? {fam much to blame; I should 
not have isolated her so completely from the so- 
ciety of others,and the scenes she longed to see; " 
perhaps I have been selfish, foolish, mistaken ; 
yes! I would think it more my fault than hers, 
my darling’s, who surely loved me too well ever 
to forsake me!” 

Calmer, incidental attendant aspects. flashed 
upon him, and he looked at it, and tried to think 
it was nothing but a girl’s high-spirited freak : 
and he knew that when a girl does do a fool-hardy 
thing, it is ten times more monstrous and unac- 
countable than a boy’s. Lena had taken this step 
recklessly, impulsively, without weighing any con- 
sequences or bestowing any thought, and certainly 
without calculating treachery to himself or to her 
love for him; thus he sought to gain comfort. 
The brunt of the shock was past, and, like many 
tremendous shocks, it galvanized him to artificial 
strength and instant action. And so when there 
came a gentle, ever so gentle and considerate, tap 
at the door, and the woman of the panther step 
entered with a little arrow-root, biscuits, a tiny 
liqueur glass, and fanciful atoms of toast, all 
upon a snowy tray-cloth arranged with the nicety 
of a wife or a mother, she was confronted, to 
her surprise and chagrin, by that figure at its 
utmost dignity, and a smile full of both coenfi- 
dence and hope. 


130 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 


Aw elderly man; rather plain of feature; mea- 
gre, gaunt, and cadaverous: not prepossessing, 
but he played the violin—divinely. 

Member of the orchestra in a popular theatre, 
Strandwards. 

A dweller with others in the plainest house of 
a plain terrace, the landlady whereof was plain, 
and a gossip to boot. 

One evening the woman pricked her finger, and 
gossiped on—slight matter; next day the finger 
commenced gathering, and pain set in; the wom- 
an groaned, gossiping still; the day following, a 
slovenly maid was sent for Dr. Nichols, who had 
an extensive practice in that suburb. He lanced, 
she winced, tongue running nineteeh to the dozen 
on her lodgers and their antecedents this hundred 
years, among others him she styled “the Fiddle- 
man.” 

He had one room, half-way to the top; had oc- 
cupied that room eleven years without leaving 
any thing upon the mantel-piece, but two even- 
ings ago had, by accident, left-an envelope there- 
on; and, also by accident, she had looked therein, 
to see—to her shocked surprise—the short-skirted 
figure of a child-dancer, pet of some low ballet 
troupe; pretty, she was forced to admit, but the 
idea! ‘She soon settled that small outrage by 

throwing it in the fire: such things lying about 
her house, indeed ! 

Groaning came on here, and she said no more; 
the doctor thought no more, returned his case to 
his pocket, and departed. 

About three weeks afterward, as Dr. Nichols 
was sitting down to dinner, he was called to No. 
7 Oroft’s Place, to which semi-select locality he 
hastened at once. An uncomely specimen of 
womanhood ushered him up stairs, muttering 
something about a gentleman’s daughter from 
the theatre; the poor girl was feverish, she 
thought. He passed into an untidy, smoke-dried 
room, and the scene presented may be thus de- 
scribed : a small bed, where, beneath a patchwork 
coverlet, a child was restlessly turning a flushed, 
beautiful face from the fire, before which was 
kneeling a gaunt man, endeavoring to toast a 
piece of bread; a picture or two on the walls; a 
shell box on the mantel, and two vases with arti- 
ficial flowers ; a small table whereon was a work- 
box, a music score, a play-bill, a dish of preserve, 
and some confectionery; a threadbare carpet, a 
rug worked with fierce peacocks, a hassock patch- 
ed with shreds of an old dog-skin jacket, two 
tumbled muslin skirts with tinsel ornaments, a 
faded paper wreath, a Watteau hat of common 
material but bewitching style; and, placed in one 
corner, a violin-case. 

The woman went out, pushing the door rough- 
ly; the man continued his toasting, but apolo- 
gized. He was about to make some toast-and- 
water; his little girl was tormented by thirst. 
There was something almost as feverish about 
the man as the child; he was terribly anxious, 
as was betrayed by every movement, by the ago- 
nized eagerness with which he watched the doc- 
tor’s face while feeling the little sufferer’s pulse, 
by his gasping, breathless, 

““ Well, doctor ?” 

His suspense was quieted upon the assurance 
that the fever was within check. 


A MODERN 


MINISTER. 


disorder, the outcome of late hours and gas, all 
weathers and undue exercise, poor living and ex: 
cess of excitement, and a generally overwrought 
system. The child’s beauty was very marked, 
and, seen with that hectic splendor, created an 
admiring interest altogether apart from profes- 
sional sympathy. Brown curls tossed hotly back 
upon the pillow, and eyes flashing with a dan- 
gerous light, arms outstretched as seeking for 
some cool, refreshing shadow ; parched lips con- 
sumed and curved longingly for fruit, or fragrant 
kisses of cold snow-drops, or violets yet sprinkled 
with the dew. The man, with infinite patience, 
held his bread before the miserable fire, looking 
from it to the child with rapid glances of love 
and care. 

“You have nothing to fear. I will send my 
lad with some mixture, which please administer 
according to directions. Take care of the win- 
dow ; it’s rather draughty. Keep her well cov- 
ered ; don’t leave her—” 

A moan here from the man, herein great 
feeling. 

“Alas, Sir, Iam compelled to attend my du- 
ties at the theatre.” 

“‘Oh, of course—nobody to stay with her.” 

“JT always lock the door; I could not leave it 
open in a house like-this. We are poor” (with 
diffidence); ‘‘one day we may be more comfort- 
ably situated” (staring upon the toast as though 
it represented a chart of life). 

“T will send our maid to sit with your little 
one during the eyening, if it can be managed, un- 
til your return from the performance.” 

This being proposed out of simple. kindliness, 
the doctor was altogether unprepared for the 
ebullition of gratitude that followed. Wheeling 
round, still upon his knees, the man cordially ex- 
pressed his thanks, and in such a trembling voice, 
it seemed no common love, this of ape old musi- 
cian for his child. 

The doctor’s lady, however, re exception to 
the project; it was unusual and dangerous, for 
the people were evidently of inferior degree ; 
professional visiting was one thing, but if every 
medical man was supposed to send his domestics 


to sit with the patients, what on earth would be-. 


come of the kitchens? He did not press the 
point ; he never did; experience warned him that 
the more points are sharpened, the weaker be- 
come arguments, The girl was quite in her mis- 
tress’s confidence, and, even had he insisted, 
would have been any thing but an agreeable com- 
panion for the little patient, in whom he felt so 
keen an interest, He dispatched his page to the 
old nurse it was their custom to employ, for cer- 
tain valuable qualities not general with the or- 
der; but the woman was away, and he began to 
be apprehensive his intentions would be frustra- 
ted. Then a consultation ensued in the surgery 
between the good doctor and his page, in whom 
he placed wonderful confidence, the boy having 
something more than a pretty face and engaging 
manners to recommend him—a tact and tender- 
ness as valuable as they were becoming. The 
doctor had the boy from his brother-in-law, Jo- 
seph Blake, in whose country house he had won 
golden opinions; and the doctor’s sister, Mrs. 
Joseph Blake, expressed herself sorry beyond 
measure to part with him; but a sad occurrence 
had. happened, which seemed to prey upon the 


A nasty low , boy’s spirits; he was evidently dull and unhap- 


—_ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


py; and Joseph, who felt some little remorse, ‘al- 
though in his blunt good nature his designs had 
been of the best, contrived this change of scene: 
and the boy, who was as sensitive as he was sen- 
sible, appreciating this, and liking his new home, 
although not his new life, appeared the happier 
for the change. 

“Perhaps Mrs. Jenkins would oblige me for an 
hour or two ?” 

This was in allusion to the kind-hearted wife 
of the grocer at the corner, whom the doctor had 
been the humble instrument of restoring to health, 
and who, like most of his patients, was very poor ; 
indeed, life was so much a struggle with the pair, 
he had never sent in his bill, awaiting better times 
for the worthy tradesman. It occurred to him 
this person would be able to watch during the 
worst of the hours, those of absence of the kind 
guardian. He had detected at once that the man 
was no relative; but, after long London experi- 
ence in poor quarters, and among the kindly souls 
who toil and struggle, one loses surprise at com- 
ing upon odd protection of the young: and we 
take it as indisputable that any protection is bet- 
ter than none in the grim city. The doctor’s 
heart was very large and full of pity for those 
having no helper, and who were engaged in work 
of a dangerous character. Such he considered 
the occupation of the child-dancers of the the- 
atres, exposed to temptation of all sorts, to which 
the exercise in the unnatural heat renders them pe- 
culiarly susceptible, contaminating and unhealthy 
influences besetting them from all quarters. His 
residence was situated near to a large theatre, and 
close by a colony of those whose little ones help- 
ed to make the spectacle poetic and graceful ; it 
had thus been his lot to come much in the way 
of these, and to observe the evil effects arising 
from the forced life. 

. His boy returned promptly. There was no 
need to ask the result; the features were so mo- 
bile, utterance was interpreted before ever the 
lips were opened. The man was away; there was 
no one else to mind the shop, or she would have 
come to him at once; and in this quarter it was 
customary for the shops to be kept open until 
past eleven o’clock. 

By this time the man had, no doubt, left the 
sick child, to attend to his duties, and the doctor 
could realize the anxiety of his mind while ac- 
companying the gay and grotesque show upon his 
instrument. The medicine must be sent, for it 
was most imperative that it should be adminis- 
tered at once. He knew it was impossible to de- 
pend upon that coarse and slovenly woman at the 
house, or any of her kin, who, moreover, were best 
out of the chamber. He was placed by his own 
humanity in a dilemma of feeling, which a cooler 
practitioner would have adjusted by permitting 
matters to take their course. This he could not 
do, although how to remedy affairs in so serious 
an emergency he was unable to solve. Then 
came his gentle boy to the relief, blue eyes all 
lighted up with the tender solicitude witnessed 
beside his dead grandfather, when he had pa- 
tiently sat out the night hours unwearily watch- 
ing where none heard his sobbing prayers, Could 
he be of service here? He had to go with the 
medicine. Might he administer the proper por- 
tion, hand fruit or drink, and stay until the return 
of the musician? Having weighed this well, it 
seemed to the doctor an opportune proposal, and 


131 


one way at least out of the difficulty. With the 
medicine and fruit and certain little delicacies his 
boy set. forth, gas-light from the shop windows 
gilding his curls, a ruby glow from the doctor’s 
surgery lamp flooding his fair young face, while 
turning to bid a respectful adieu. 

An hour later, having occasion to go very near 
the house, the doctor called to see how the little 
sufferer was progressing. To his remark that he 
would go up to the room, the woman gave a surly 
nod, and flounced to some lower region, from 
whence came sounds of lamentation and woe. 

The door was slightly ajar. He entered noise- 
lessly, and found his page bending over the child, 
wiping the moisture from her brow. with infinite 
tenderness. He never forgot her beaming glance 
at the beautiful face leaning over her with broth- 
erly sympathy. The picture was so pretty, he did 
not speak, but waited in the doorway. Smooth- 
ing the sheet and tucking the coverings close, the 
boy turned to resume his seat beside the bed, 
when, catching sight of the doctor, he quietly and 
without embarrassment gave place, remarking, in 
low tones, 

“The carriages and noise outside seem to dis- 
turb her, Sir.” 

“ Has she been delirious at all?” 

““Qnly restless ; sometimes talking of the the- 
atre, fearful of a mistake in the figure.” 

“T can wait five-or ten minutes, if you would 
like a walk during that time.” 

When the boy had gone, the doctor had leisure 
to observe the child, and for once was full of re- 
gret that the art of the painter had never been 
his. The hectic transparency lent charm to the 
features, in themselves of an exquisite moulding ; 
and, whatever the opinion of the old violin-player, 
the doctor certainly experienced profound regret 
that so fair a creature should be thus prostrated, 
the young life consuming itself. She awoke from 
a, short interval of painful slumber, opened her 
large eyes wide upon him, and spoke as one strug- 
gling from out of a-dream. 

Where is shed a holier life than in the awak- 
ening from some dream in childhood? What 
lovelier than those rose-hued, chaste transitions, 
when the soul is winged and comes back to con- 
sciousness with half-reluctant, half-eager flutter- 
ing ? ? 

“ Wheres is he ?” asked the child, timidly, look- 
ing round the room. 

% It is not yet time for his return, my dear ; it 
is but ten o’clock; the performance is not over 
for an hour yet. if: 

“Where is he?” she repeated, looking ean 
bled and eager. Then, as though to herself, “ One 
doesn’t feel kisses in dreams—not real kisses.” 

‘You mistake, my child; Iam the doctor. My 
little page has been watching beside you in case 
your illness should take a turn; he was only wip- 
ing your forehead. His gentleness led you to be- 
lieve it a fairy’s kiss.” 

She leaned upon her elbow, and, looking at the 
doetor with grave decision, said, 

“T tell you he kissed me—I know what kisses 
are; and he knelt by this bed and prayed I might 
soon be better.” 

Here was a revelation, of original sin or origi- 
nal goodness—which ? 

‘“‘ Well, now tell me what is the matter here ?” 
taking seat beside the bed, and feeling the quick, 
irregular pulse. 


152 


“T think I caught cold coming home from the 
theatre.” 

“Very likely. What do you do there?” 

‘‘T dance in the fairy scene.” 

“ Just so—muslin skirts up to the knees—lit- 
tle or nothing under the skirts—draughts from 
all quarters; then you blame it on God’s good 
weather! Very wrong of you, little fairy.” 

She smiled faintly at his petulance, and replied, 
in similar spirit, 

“There’s winds as well as draughts, and we 
haven’t too much to wear, outside.” 

“* And—your father ?” 

“‘ Always waits for me and sees me home here, 
and often wraps me in his own great-coat. I owe 
every thing to him, except my engagement at the 
theatre.” 

Of the many idyls the doctor had met with in 
common life, none had so aroused his interest as 
this of the old violin-player. He hoped to hear 
more of the story; he had been a close student 
of psychological phenomena, and this was not 
the kind upon which he had bestowed least at- 
tention. 

Around the room were evidences of much quiet 
thought on the part of the home-maker. Grapes 
on a chair by the bedside, violets in a little vase, 
a book of pictures, and covers of old music gor- 
geous with drabbled hues; a framed piece of col- 
or hung where it would meet:the invalid’s gaze ; 
apparel neatly folded and arranged with reverent 
care; charred remains of a play-bill, as though 
the burner hated the sight of them; a man’s 
walking-stick, and with it a small gingham um- 
brella. He took all in with a medical man’s 
quick perception, and the result presented itself 
as a kind and watchful good genius at work in 
this small abode. 

“Now, little girl, pay great attention to what 
I am going to say. To get well, you will take 
the medicine I shall send, and keep as- quiet as 
you can, certainly not tossing about in that rest- 
less fashion; to keep well, you will have to give 
up the theatre.” 

Her face clouded over in an instant; the life 
was exercising its fatal fascination. 

“He says so,” murmured the girl, as though 
impressed by the coincidence; and then, plead- 
ingly, to the adviser: ‘“‘I should be sorry to do 
that; in time I shall be in the front row, and 
have fifteen instead of seven shillings a week.” 

“Well, we will not talk about that now; but 
I’m sorry to see you so fond of it. How long 
have you been doing this ?” 

‘““Ever since poor mother died, two years ago; 
a kind woman where we lived (the landlady) took 
me one day to the manager, and he had me 
taught; I heard him say my face wasn’t much, 
but my hair, if attended to, would be magnificent, 
and that my legs would be his fortune!” (with nai- 
veté impossible to render here). 

““Very pretty indeed! And I suppose it never 
occurred to you to object to this appraisement ?” 

‘“‘T don’t know what that is, but I slapped the 
call-boy’s face because he was rude to me. I’ve 
only to complain to father if any one insults me, 
and he soon settles it.” 

* “Why do you say ‘father?’ ” 

“Tt’s more convenient, and saves talking, be- 
sides being the most proper name, If you only 
knew his goodness, Sir!’ Eyes filling with tears 
at the recollection of the long service of love. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“T do know it, my child. How came it first 
about ?” 

‘From seeing me every night, and knowing I 
was quite alone in the world, I suppose. In the 
whirl and passing of the dance I always found 
his eyes upon me, watching me as my mother 
used to watch when I went an errand down the 
street; and I grew to love those eyes, and: to 
smile at him and no one else, at every coming 
round. Then he waited for me at the stage-door, 
and used to take me out, and to church on Sun- 
days; and so.we became fast friends, and will 
remain so all our lives.” 

“T hope so,” the doctor replied, devoutly ; “‘ but 
not if you ask for the fancied kissers of your 
dreams.” 

Whereat she blushed, waxed angry, and turn- 
ed her back upon him. 

“ Ah, well, my child, do not mind me; I am 
old and cross-grained, yet would be your friend.” 
The doctor looked at his watch, saying kindly, 
“Ttis time for me to go; I may be sent for at my 
house. You will be all right until your father’s 
coming, and as your nurse has returned, I will 
leave you in his care.”’ 3 

Arthur behaved with discretion, taking a book 
and seating himself by the fire. This child seem- 
ed so different to Rose Blake, scarcely of a like 
order of humanity; the beauty here was wild, 
and of an untamed type; its physical aspect, 
perhaps, presenting a more striking picture, with 
the deep brown of hair and eyes; the dark com- 
plexion, fever-hued with mocking health, vivaci- 
ty, and esprit, even in sickness lending singular 
charm to this waif of Bohemia. Yet even as his 
memory of the chemist’s child was that one ex- 
quisite jewel of life, the first dream, he did not 
so much as turn toward this other until she call- 
ed him. Afterward he recounted to his friend, 
the sympathetic Dr. Nichols, all that transpired, 
and a very ingenuous and original narration it 
was, 

“T turned some time afterward, Sir, thinking 
the little girl asleep, not having spoken: but she 
was looking at me, wide-awake, so I went on with 
my reading. Presently she said, ‘The doctor 
told you to watch by me.’ ‘So Iam, miss,’ I an- 
swered. ‘I call that watching by the fire. Why 
don’t you come and tell me a story?’ I did so, 
about a book I had from the Sunday-school last 
week. ‘Do you like Sunday-schools ?? I asked 
of her. ‘Don’t know what they are,’ she an- 
swered ; ‘I think I should like the theatres best.’ 
Then I said, ‘I’m sorry for your taste, miss,’ ‘I 
wish you wouldn’t keep Missing me so much,’ 
she cried, angrily; ‘save that for your little 
friends on Sunday, Sir! and she turned her back 
upon me. I continued reading, wishing her fa- 
ther would come; but she looks so pretty when 
cross—so pretty—I could not help looking up 
now and then; and once she caught me, but then 
she must have been looking on the sly. ‘I say,’ 
she said, ‘does your Sunday-school teach you to 
kiss folks that can not defend themselves?’ at 
which I looked down, for I have always so wish- 
ed I had a little sister, and I had dared to think 
for a moment how happy I should be with such 
a one. I answered, ‘I meant no harm; I ask 
your pardon; it was no wrong kiss.’ ‘ Well, 
since you explain so prettily, you may have an- 
other—kiss me, nurse.’ She looked so demure 
in ordering me, and I was so glad to be good 


“A MODERN MINISTER. 


friends, that I did so. And then we had some 
fruit each, talking about when she was well, 
what pleasant walks we’d have, if you were will- 
ing. I said, ‘Perhaps your father won’t like it, 
Amy’—she wished me to call her Amy—‘ because 
in that case we would do nothing of the sort.’ 
‘You're a very good boy,’ she said; ‘but let me 
tell yon he is a dear, kind, loving one, and won’t 
mind a bit.’ I told her you had said she wasn’t 
to talk, but to keep quiet; and there she was 
running on and as fidgety as ever she could be. 
She said, ‘ Well, how should you like to be lying 
here, when you ought to be with the coryphées ?’ 
I answered, ‘But then I should never want to 
be with the coryphées. ‘Ah, you may talk, 
but you haven’t seen me in the lime-light, in new 
tulle, and with a diamond star in my hair, at the 
parting! ‘I dare say you look very pretty, 
Amy; the plainest of girls is improved under 
those circumstances.’ ‘That’s a horrid throw at 
me.’ ‘No, it is not meant in that way; but you 
must and shall keep quiet, or I will go; why, 
you are much more flushed than you were! Do, 
to please me and all of us!’ She was quiet aft- 
er that, and before long had gone to sleep. The 
little piece of candle—you remember the small 
piece it was, Sir ?—burned down and out; I could 
not find another; there was no bell. I listened 
for the landlady’s coming, and asked for her, 
and was told she had gone out for the evening. 
The woman I spoke to, who has the rooms above, 
said she burned lamps, or would lend me an end: 
and then went in and closed her door loudly ; 
there was nothing to do but wait till her father 
returned. JI drew up the blind; the moonlight 
fell across the centre of the room; one of her 
hot hands strayed over the quilt; I took it and 
placed it underneath ; the movement, careful as 
it was, awoke her, or appeared to do so; but she 
had changed, and seemed all excitement. Catch- 
ing sight of the moonlight on the boards and on 
the white skirts, she started with a cry, threw 
her arms up, jumped from the bed, and dashed 
into the maddest dance I ever saw; there where 
the moonlight—” 

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the doctor, inter- 
rupting the young narrator very anxiously; ‘a 
pretty thing came of leaving you in charge! 
Why, the child was delirious again—must have 
been !” 

“T implored of her to go quietly back to bed; 
she only replied by a peal of laughter, and at that 
moment her father stood in the doorway. I could 
not see his face, but the cry he gave was more 
horrible than any we heard in the hospital that 
day when we had to go to see the poor man who 
was taken there.” 

“And what did he do? whatever could he 
think ?” 

“Well, Sir, he seemed more put out at my be- 
ing there than he would have been at finding her 
alone: he was rather gruff, did not thank me, and 
bade me not to come again.” 

“T can understand it; that I will set right in 
the morning. But the girl, how is she now? 
What turn did the frenzy take?” 

_“Faintness, with shivering, and asking for 
water. He put her back, and after a little while 
she was calm—not asleep, but as still.” 

*‘ All is well; the passion spent itself, She will 
be better after this.” | 

In the morning the doctor was at the house 


‘link its shifting pictures. 


133 


rather earlier than it was his custom to call upon 
patients. Croft’s Place was not improved by 
daylight; and No. 7 was, if any thing, the most 
objectionable in the rank of houses. 

In all London terraces, below a certain grade, 
there is great uniformity in the matter of dingi- 
ness, dirtiness, untidiness, and smokiness. Why 
the features should be peculiar to London, and 
characteristic of these grim rows of dwellings, is 
a problem the most enlightened citizen would 
have to commune with his wife upon. 

The pretty patient was considerably better, yet 
with traces of the struggle painfully visible. Dr. 
Nichols shook hands with her guardian, who had 
been the devoted watcher through the night: he 
looked haggard and worn. 

“Why, friend, you must not lose your rest like 
this, or I shall have yow upon my list; uneasy as 
you have been, there is no need for fear. You 
have passed the night in terror ?” 

‘“‘T have passed the night in prayer.” 

‘And your prayer has been mercifully answer- 
ed; your child is better.” 

‘Not mercifully ; I prayed my child might die.” 

“ Die! Why, man, what shocking wickedness 
is this ?” 

He stood with dignity that surprised the other, 
and, with calmness, said, 

‘“‘T owe you an explanation,” 

Ife motioned to a chair; the doctor sat down; 
he continued standing with a hand upon its back, 
but in such a way that his eyes were never lifted 
from that loving vigil. 

““You know I am employed in the orchestra of 
the theatre close by, of which I have been a mem- 
ber for some years, and I have worked diligently 
and regularly in my profession. Perhaps you 
know little of our lives. Although night after 
night facing a whirl of excitement, there is dread- 
ful monotony ; and the same thing year after 
year, and every night of the year, with excep- 
tion of the blessed Sabbaths, is very wearying. 
The only change is afforded by that of the stage 
itself. A new play is welcomed by no one so 
heartily as by the musicians, who usher it in and 
Privately, apart from 
this, my life has been a sad and lonely one; I 
have known much trouble, disappointment, diffi- 
culty, and sickness; I have been very isolated, 
with no one to love me, and nothing to love. Of 
course, in an insignificant being like the violin- 
player of a theatre, that is a matter of little mo- 
ment—I only mention it. . 

‘“‘ Well, Sir, stationed as we are, in such close 
view of the actors upon the stage, one is sure to 
take a liking for one or other of those so fre- 
quently brought to the fore: yet have I seen a 
procession of fair faces without experiencing in- 
terest in any—I speak of the younger men. I 
think I used to watch the children with most 
pleasure, yet with pain, for I sorrowed to see 
their fresh” young beauty grow paler night by 
night, and the lissom limbs lose measure in the 
progress of the dance. From when this little face 
shone forth upon the old boards, a new interest 
in the place seemed aroused within me; it was 
like a fairer flower, and I loved it—I loved it!” 

His worn sad face had softened to inexpressible 
fondness, the eyes never lifted from the flushed 
beauty upon the pillow. 

“‘T was told some woman, not the mother of this 
child, had brought her to the theatre, and offered 


134 A MODERN 
her on sale, or loan, or hire, if they could make 
any thing out of her. From one to another the 
child was tossed, a general favorite and public 
property; the manager used to recompense first 
one and then another of the women to see to her. 
I would watch for her as eagerly as though my 
own; the little face became to me the star of that 
strange world; I never played so well as when 
the sweet child shone to my music. While her 
swift feet worked the tracery of its measures, her 
eyes would flash to the sound in rhythm, more 
perfect than any accompaniment of voice; and 
when the child was off the stage the lights seemed 
dull and all the place was dim, TI had no inter- 
est beyond the notes, save for wondering what she 
was doing and in what company she might be cast. 
It is a morbid instrument, the violin, Sir: one falls 
a-thinking over its tune. I was always thinking 
of the poor young thing, with never a father’s or 
a mother’s care and love to keep it good and pure 
and innocent. Thus month after month went on, 
and I marked the expanding of her beauty and 
growth of her fragile frame, even in that artificial 
and forcing life. At last a great comfort fell upon 
me—l attracted her attention, her interest, her af- 
fection: she could not but mark the constant 
scrutiny always in that one spot. Shedid! She 
did!” At this, with a passionate outburst, he 
clasped his hands, and stooping; kissed her 
fondly. 

“From that moment we were friends, good 
friends: she confided all her little cares and sor- 
rows, asked advice, and sought assistance at my 
hands. I gave her all; and that she might be 
better provided for, set aside the half of my sal- 
ary for her especial use. She grew straight and 
strong and beautiful, and I knew my first great 
grief when rude eyes of stranger patrons were 
caught by the symmetry too faultlessly perfect to 
pass in the crowd. I grew restless and uneasy, 
and racked by a mighty pain. Her mixing with 
those of the profession was sufficient cause, but 
when it came to molestation from the public—or 
that part of it existing to wreck and ruin—I was 
ever at her elbow to protect her from insult and 
temptation. I have won‘a victory—in taking her 
from old companions; I may yet complete it. O 
that I could take her from the stage! But she is 
so wedded to it by association and liking, she 
pines and is miserable if removed but for a 
night. Believe me, I have tried, by all the means 
human ingenuity could devise, to raise her from 
that. But I notice the love of the hollow hor- 
rible life increasing and growing with her growth; 
the pleasure and excitement, the vanity and am- 
bition, combine to enchain her whole heart and 
soul, and if persevered in, they will result in her 
destruction. ‘Then do you wonder at my prayer, 
unloving and impious though it seem? Ah, if 
you knew the depth of this love for my darling, 
you would cease to wonder! Better, far better, 
for the good Lord to save her while there is time: 
my influence may not suffice, I scarcely think it ; 
and I am not strong, and aweary, so weary!” — 

The tone died away to a plaint that was so very 
pathetic it moved the doctor, and, taking his 
trembling hand, he attempted a little common- 
sense argument. 

“My good friend, you are letting your morbid- 
ness, your sensitive apprehensiveness, run away 
with your reason. Although I disapprove of the 
theatre on the score of health, and perhaps on 


MINISTER. 


moral grounds, I believe it to be as possible for 
a child to be uncontaminated in its atmosphere 
as in that of most other forms of apprenticeship. 
Still, it is uncertain, and once the seed has sunk, it 
is no longer on the surface to be traced, unfortu- 
nately for some of us. You can not have been 
and can not be with your child every minute of 
her time, and it seems to me, in going to sea in a 
doubtful craft, one must at least prepare for a 
wreck, and rather blame one’s self than Provi- 
dence. Do not think me hard; I am but repre- 
senting the matter practically. Were you a man 
of fortune, with nothing to do but hedge in your 
protégée from others and the world, the case would 
be different ; but even then you could not root out 
the past, supposing a past. I confess I have not 
much faith in human nature of whatever age; 
but at this, I imagine, it is rather worse than any 
other. I am sorry to say my theories are not to 
the credit of my kind. If you, who are older and 
have known wounds, can entertain faith and ex- 
perience confidence, so much the better, although 
it appears to me very like crawling down the jag- 
ged wall of an earthquake. Depend upon this, 
the happiest people in the world are those who 
feel nothing, who lay themselves open to no sen- 
sibility, shut eyes and ears to every thing, especial- 
ly every thing emotional, and who go on their 
way disturbing about nothing and disturbed by 
nobody, either to love or to hate. These are the 
people who live so long, and who crow over the 
graves of such as you and I. My candor pains 
you, and I am sorry, but I have spoken in honest 
sympathy. My thanks for your confidence; it 
shall not be misplaced: any time I can be of 
service, command me.” ; 

He grasped the kind hand at this, and ex- 
claimed, 

“You can; and now! Receive her into your 
house to wait upon your lady; train her to be 
good, and useful, and pure—you can do it all bet- 
ter than I—and she would still be mine, mzne, to 
be taken some day when I have put by sufficient ; 
but it would be better now to see her in some 
quiet home circle.” 

“With great pleasure, my friend: I trust, nay, 
Iam sure, when I put it properly to her, my wife 
will not object; but yourself—what will you do 
without your little favorite ?” 

He looked upward with a sublime and trustful 
expression. 

“It is for her good. For my love I will bear 
to part. with her; besides” (eagerly), “you will 
permit her to come and see me. Ah, my dar- 
ling” (leaning over the child), “you will be safe 
there, safe !” 

Broken, uncertain utterance from the restless 
sleeper, and they heard this: 

“Kiss me—once more—call that last a kiss ? 
Why, they burn me through after the dancing. 
Quick! the doctor will be here; but we will be 
alone again in moonlight, and love when he has 
gone. How pretty you are, and not rude to me, 
like those at the play! Yow are the prince I’ve 
danced with all this time, I’ve fancied your beau- 
ty—seen it every night; all the dance long it has 
led me like a splendor till I’ve lost myself, and 
—you—are here !” 

The old man was ghastly. Lower and lower 
the head had sunk, the gaunt form being all 
drawn up and bent. 

This man, with his simple idyl and mad hope, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


moved the doctor to infinite pity. He pressed 
his hand with sympathy of no common order, and 
walked to the window. He felt in some measure 
responsible for this piece of pain. Although done 
with the best of motives, the best of motives, as 
is usual, proved the worst of friends, and by the 
new light he saw another mistake. If man would 
but be guided by his wife, who counsels often 
not wisely but too well! 

He looked forth—people in emergency have no 
alternative but to look forth. His inspection of 
nature without was not re-assuring; it was the 
usual dismal yet varied London back-view vista 
of chimneys, panorama of tiles, grim lengths of 
parapet and serried ranks of sloping slate, dizzy 
corners, and stone edgings overhanging the streets. 
To the right, a large advertising station, all aflame 
with a huge painting of the fairy scene from a 
theatre-spectacle near by, where little ones were 
pursued by evil, and rescued by good genii, with 
all the other pageant of the poetic allegory; at 
an angle, the windowed wall and crowded lamps 
of a gin palace; at the rear, the glass roof of a 
photographer’s; a deserted chicken walk; some 
boxes of leafless shrub; a rope dangling from 
house to house, upon which an array of linen flut- 
tering to the public edification ; two cats at drawn 
battle over a fallen sparrow; and a woman dan- 
cing a baby at an upper window. Turning round, 
he found the man, deadly pale, standing with 
hands clasped behind him, looking down upon 
the little burning face. 

The doctor was shocked at the stony calmness 
and laid his hand upon the man’s shoulder. 

“Come,” he said, ‘‘ you feel things too much ; 
you suffer this to trouble you more than there is 
occasion for.” ; 

He was saying “ Good-by,” when, speaking very 
softly, he added, 

“We neither of us foresaw this. You will change 
your decision, and remain, as you: most properly 
are, the child’s best friend.” 

He was staring vacantly over at the brown old 
instrument, and with one stride he was up beside it, 
clutching with convulsive fondness, as though re- 
turning to the unchanged. He tapped it half fond- 
ly, as to say, “This, this is my all!” Then he 
turned feverishly to the doctor. 

“ You will forgive meifI play? This has borne 
my suffering before.” 

Without awaiting permission, he dashed off 
upon a strain of unearthly utterance; wild and 
weird, more a fantastic, horrible wailing than any 
melody; now soaring to an illimitable compre- 
hension of anguish, now plunging as in throes of 
dire extremity, now sinking to quivering solos of 
keen tenderness and anguish. The doctor gazed 
upon the man as upon one demented. 

It was not agreeable nor clever, and blindly 
passionate; it was agony bursting from the bow. 
The doctor looked the old musician calmly in the 
face. 

“ Tf—you—play—thus—you—will—break—a 
—string !” 

The measured words checked the outburst, the 
playing changed to the very opposite—a harum- 
scarum dance piece and medley of vicious airs. 
This he interchanged by variations upon a string 
that was more eloquent than any cry of any hu- 
man heart. The frenzy of merriment rose and 
sharpened until it became a shrill shriek of hys- 
terical hilarity: keener, more acutely vivid; and 


135 


the doctor covered his ears. The man took no 
notice; he was beside himself. All the endur- 
ance of months and untold suffering; all the fears 
and terrors and blind, passionate yearning ; all the 
love and grim waste of uncared-for life, came out 
as a libretto to that fantasia of mad excitement; 
and through it all, the airs he rendered every 
night, from repetition the part and parcel of his 
spirit, a horrible travesty upon his pain, a Satan- 
ic dual-anguish with the opera of his madness. 
And more biting, cutting, stinging, clove from the 
strings that dread strain ; more screaming, mirth- 
ful, and exquisitely tempestuous, a very hurricane 
of glee, with notes of awful torture heard in the 
storm. . Wild yells crept forth and were scoured 
about by the jovial crew of wondering long-drawn 
echoes, pealed forth with discordant clangor, or 
quivered with solemn and mournful distress 
through the thrilled air. It was a great and hor- 
rible performance of sound—music of a ghastly 
kind. As it intensified, the child moved uneasily, 
and struggled as though under the influence of 
some mighty power, and opening wide her spark- 
ling eyes, seeming to distend at every nerve and 
drink in the melody to the utmost quiver of its 
fierce contention; starting up in bed, on the bed, 
off the bed, on to the floor, and there in the one 
gleam of sunshine breaking into the maddest 
dance eyes ever witnessed, The experience of the 
doctor’s gentle page had in part prepared him for 
some such exhibition as this, a fit accompaniment 
to that frenzy from the violin. Never would he 
forget that frantic tarantula—a new phase in his 
medical experience.. Professional brethren, to 
whom he afterward spoke of it in confidential 
conference, assured him that, although rare, such 
ebullitions are by no means impossible with certain 
acutely constituted natures. He was compelled to 
admit, however, this instance stood alone in his 
personal experience. The excitement aroused or 
let loose by the strain: had seized upon the child, 
and she danced with delirious glee, with such rapid- 
ity the doctor became alarmed ; the player caught 
the infection. He noticed it,and was glad. At 
that moment, with the final effort of his expiring 
strength, a string broke; the sound ceased, the 
violin falling upon the ground, and the child sink- 
ing into the doctor’s arms outstretched to save 
her, for his knowledge of hysterical fits warned 
him of the reaction to ensue—the faintness and 
exhaustion inevitable. The man himself sat pant- 
ing like some beast after a hard chase, with the 
note of the hunter yet upon the wind. The doc- 
tor placed a damp towel upon the white little 
brow, perfectly white now, he was rejoiced to see. 
He held her firm, that is, made the firmness felt ; 
for although the excitement had subsided, there 
were struggling, panting throes as of some evil 
spirit, subdued and bound, shaking the slight 
lithe form revengefully. A shattered, smitten lit- 
tle girl, fainting and flushed, throbbing, and with 
lilies rising above the burned scarlet: a mere bird 
subjected to the torture, and, bird-like, nestling on 
his bosom ; lying back, wearied and pale and in 
pain, looking up languidly in his face as implor- 
ing him to heal—him, poor comer-in between souls 
and mender of bruised bodies, as though he could 
re-adjust these finer ailments or minister to a mind 
diseased. But he just whispered, while placing 
her in the little bed, 

“Tt is in your power to make him well and 
happy, and yours alone.” 


156 


He dared not say more then, but he thought 
she understood. 

And most touching of all the incidents of this 
memorable time was the meek coming of the old 
man to her bedside, all trembling with love and 
tenderness, leaning over her with infinitude of 
devotedness, breathlessly waiting, eyes all lighted 
up with hope for a look, a word of recognition, 

But she put him from her as with aversion. 

His bowed sorrow and wounded love spoke in 
the dignity with which he moved back. He re- 
turned to his seat, resigned, sad, and now com- 
posed. It was the dangerous apathy of dead sor- 
row, the torpor of despair. 

“Tt is nothing,” said the doctor, aside ; 
pass off; symptom of no account.” 

He looked gratefully from the shadow as he 
stooped to take up the violin. He was locking it 
away in the case when Dr. Nichols arose once 
more to depart. Holding his hand out with fare- 
well cordial sympathy, he said: 

“‘T can be of no further use here. 
safe in your charge. 


“will 


She will be 

Her recovery, please God, 
commences with this; keep her quiet and leave 
nature to itself. I will look in to-morrow.” 

He muttered his broken thanks, carrying the 
friend’s hand to his lips. Dr. Nichols hastened 
from the room, and walking briskly home thought 
on poor Beethoven’s words, ‘‘ My misfortune gives 
me double pain, since through it I am misunder- 
stood. For me the recreation of human society, 
conversation, the interchange of affection, have no 
place. I must live an exile. Farewell, and do 
not quite forget me in death. I have deserved 
it of you, for I have often thought of you in life, 
and studied how to make you happy: may you 
be so.” 

How many of us understand these wolian na- 
tures, these souls. all attune to excess of feeling ? 
After what eccentric standard would the world 
rate the scene he had witnessed but now? One 
of those more subtle episodes off the beaten groove 
we come upon sometimes, and no more understand 
than the ancient rites and mysticisms of long-dead 

peoples and long-buried faiths. We can only go 
on our way wagging the head, perhaps bestowing 
vulgar commiseration, knowing as little of the 
laws which regulate the poetry and music of the 
soul in its sorrow as of that majestic scheme of 
creation secret to the Infinite. 

The doctor entered his house in a very thought- 
ful mood. 

Sitting by the fire with a favorite volume, he 
yet could not read that night, looking in the vivid 
coals where weird faces seemed to glow, and the 
wondrous blending of youth and age to be illumi- 
nated with more significance of meaning than 
ever. His good wife remarked upon the abstrac- 
tion of his manner, and asked him, 

“What of your little patient, my dear ?” 

The boy was handing coffee, a rich glow dyed 
his cheek, and the hand holding the cream-ewer 
was shaken nervously, He was going to leave 
the room hurriedly before the doctor could reply 
properly to the question. This was contrary to 
the latter’s plans, He bade him stay and place 
some papers in order that, were scattered upon 
his desk ; then detailed so much as he considered 
prudent and most likely to advance the cause at 
heart. 

His wife shrugged her shoulders, seemed to re- 
flect, and said, sententiously, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“You have done well, my dear.” (This was bet- 
ter than he had expected; he received reward 
where it was most sweet, in his wife’s approval.) 
“Yes, you have done well: she shall come to us as 
soon as sufficiently recovered. Under my care she 
may be made an amiable and worthy child; in- 
telligent she already is, I am satisfied.” 

Of course he had not by word or hint connect- 
ed Arthur in any way; he knew of his own good 
sense the boy would understand and be wise. . 

He would not damp his wife’s kind sympathy, 
but in his heart was convinced that, once recover- 
ed, so far from being content to settle in their 
quiet home, the girl would be back at her old 
wearying life of excitement and glitter. As if it 
was morally feasible that a girl accustomed for 
two years or more to dancing at a theatre night 
after night would settle down to quiet darning 
or reading old volumes of Christian magazines ! 

The outburst he had witnessed (he had not 
thought it necessary to disclose either the record 
of one or other of the sad displays) betrayed the 
strong hold the life had upon her, and he would 
have staked his professional honor upon the utter 
impossibility of its eradication. | 

That her guardian could use restraint he did 
not for a moment believe. Such policy would 
change whatever love she entertained to hate. 
The only course would be to watch over her deli- 
cately from the distance—no slight charge where 
the foot-lights intervene. 

He visited his interesting patient daily, then at 
more extended periods as she improved sufficient- 
ly to take short walks, leaning upon her guard- 
ian’s arm. She progressed rapidly, and it was 
long before autumn flowers had ceased to bloom 
that he congratulated her upon return to health. 

As he suspected, the aversion to her kind pro- 
tector was but temporary ; her affection increased 
with recovery. 

One day, when the doctor called, he wished to 
test the old passion; a new ballet had recently 
been produced at her theatre, a spectacle of mag- 
nificence. He casually alluded to it, when he de- 
tected a slight shudder, a paler hue, and she hast- 
ily replied that she had given up thinking of the 
theatre. 

What marvelous light shone on the musician’s 
face! He looked across at his friend, as showing 
himself satisfied for once and forever. 

The passion then had spent itself in that hour 
of her mad tarantula ! 

And thus far a good result had come of that 
wild strain. By his own art, in his own agony, 
he had conquered, 

* * * # * * 

Mrs. Blake brought Rose and came up to town 
for a week, to stay with her brother and his wife, 
and to see the shops, the autumn novelties, and 
possible winter fashions. 

Arthur knew they were coming, and he was a 
little sad; for they came from the glorious hills, 
the quiet ‘lanes, the sweet downland viijlages, the 
old woods of Sussex ; they came from still water- 
courses, from silent ways where those herbs grew 
which the dear dead hand had gathered. He 
quivered at the very name of their town; he 
trembled at apprehension of some remark, care- 
less enough, yet that would pain; and he remem- 
bered his | grandfather’ s dread of this child, Rose, 
he was longing yet fearing to see. 

Arthur was at some light occupation in the 


ie Arthur ? 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


surgery, and there hoped to remain forgotten ; he 
knew they were in the house, and through the 
wire blind had seen the twenty-seven packages 
and the black bonnet-box carried into the passage 
by the cabman. Dr. Nichols was far too thought- 
ful to send the boy out to help; and he had heard 
them enter; heard Rose’s ‘“‘Where’s Arthur, un- 
cle?” heard the reply, “‘ Busy, little one, in my 
surgery ;” heard them go up stairs to the draw- 
ing-room, and Mrs. Nichols come bustling forth 
to welcome them, all in a flurry, for the good 
lady had not expected them until evening, and 
was overtaken in the midst of pastry and pre- 
serves. But then, as Mrs. Blake pertinently ob- 
served, “‘ One gets another day in by leaving home 
early.” Arthur was at work red-capping phials, 
deftly white-papering bottles, folding up and ty- 
ing them round with neat care and nicety. A 
doctor may have ten boys in his service without 
one possessing sufficient skill. 

Then he heard a step, and saw the surgery 
door opened a few inches, and some blown tress- 
es, gold against the brown of the door, and sun- 
light in the dull retreat, and a row of little pink 
fingers holding it open, the prettiest little nose 
conceivable, two wicked eyes, and a brow clear 
and open as the day. 

“‘May I come in, please ?” 

“Yes, Miss Rose;” and the boy blushed crim- 
son. He could not assume authority with her as 
with that other. 

“Tt is nice in here, but doesn’t smell half so 
sweet as papa’s shop; but that’s because you 
haven’t any perfumery. Well, and how are you, 
We have so missed you!” 

“Thank you, miss, for kindly saying so; Iam 
much better. I hope Mr. Blake is quite well?” 

“Yes, thank you, and he has sent you by me 
this little present for pocket-money, with his kind 
remembrance, and hoping you will be happy in 
London; and I was to be sure and say, that any 
time if you like to come back to us you can do 
so.” She handed him a sovereign, the gift of 
his late employer. 

“Mr. Blake is very kind, and I thank you, miss ; 
although your uncle is so good to me I scarcely 
ought to take it.” 

“Never mind that; put it in your pocket, and 
—here’s some sweets I’ve brought; and a pair 
of muffetees I’ve worked for you, because I 
thought your hands would be cold; and—I hope 
it won’t make you miserable if I tell you, Arthur 
—lI’ve been every Saturday afternoon to the 
church-yard, and have put fresh flowers on the 
grave where we went the day before you came 
away. Now don’t cry, Arthur, we won’t speak 
of it again; only I thought if I told you directly 
I came, we could be all the happier afterward, 
and I shouldn’t have it on my mind that I had 
got to tell you.” 

He could not help a few scalding tears, but 
dashed them away, looking up from the misty 
bottles at the small kind face that seemed pale 
and thoughtful; but that look of his was beauti- 
ful, so full of gratitude and fine appreciation. 

“Well, and now what have I to tell you?” 
seating herself aloft on the one high stool, and 
gazing with a comical shudder at the leech aqua- 
rium, with the remark aside, “‘ Papa’s got some 
of those horrid things!” then looking down and 
thinking, while the doctor’s page quietly proceed- 
ed with his work. ‘“Pve some canaries, Arthur, 


137 


beauties! Two sing, and the others don’t. Mr, 
Garland gave them to me, and a splendid cage, 
and I have them in my play-room at the house,” 

‘‘Mr, Garland is very kind to you.” 

“And mamma has a pony-chaise and two 
ponies, We shall often take nice drives now; it 
won’t be so very much out of the way, as we can 
drive into Brighton.” 

“Tt is a long way from the town;” and, with 
a choking sensation, the boy brushed his chips 
and cuttings aside and, begging to be excused, 
quitted the surgery. 

Next day Rose wanted some fruit, and asked 
permission to go out and buy some; and might 
Arthur go? They set forth upon their errand, 
and made the purchase, and were returning, when 
the meagre, stooping form of the old musician 
came in sight; with him Amy, almost herself 
again, and piquant as a young gypsy. fhe caught 
sight of her nurse and his companion on the in- 
stant. The boy flushed, knew not which way to 
turn, and, rather vexed, marched on as though 
having to return immediately to his employment. 
The old man passed without heeding the boy. 
Amy gazed earnestly at Rose with that playful 
impudence young Bohemia displays when critical 
upon those of the same age higher in the social 
scale. This led Rose to look back, and she was 
surprised to find the other similarly engaged. 
“Well,” said Rose, “ that girl could not have look- 
ed harder if she had seen one of us before.” 

“Tt is one of Dr. Nichols’s patients, a little girl 
who has been very ill, and I had to take medicine 
to the house.” 

“Well, I shouldn’t have thought she would 
have come to the door; saw you from the window, 
perhaps.” 

Arthur considered the whole affair so much 
more the doctor’s property than his own that he 
accepted the justification, and said no more about 
it, and Rose skipped on with her bag of fruit, ap- 
parently content. 

“Ts Joseph still on the Council?” asked Dr. 
Nichols at dinner. 

“Next year, brother, Joseph will be an Alder- 
man ;” and Mrs. Blake looked majestically at her 
sister-in-law as if to say, ‘‘ Wouldn’t you like your 
husband to stand in the way of such honor ?” 
Majesty very much subdued when the doctor ob- 
served, 

“Well, Margaret, I have never gone into the 
subject, but J could not devote valuable time to 
parish and borough matters.” 

“Tt is a failing of our family, brother, to be 
born with large ideas. Dear mother always said, 
you know, I ought to have looked higher than a 
professional man.” . 

“ Good gracious !” cried Mrs. Nichols. ‘‘ What 
can be higher than a professional man ?” 

“You quite startled me, my love,” said the doc- 
tor, a little nervously. “I thought you’d a bone 
in your throat.” 

“Well, a Sir, for instance,” replied Mrs, Blake. 
“Tt must feel very pleasant to be addressed ‘My 
Lady’ this, ‘My Lady’ that. Now Ive an idea 
such a distinction confers great honor.” 

“Tt never struck you, I suppose, Margaret, that 
it is possible for a lady to confer the honor upon 
such distinction. Shall I help you to a little more 
sole ?” 

“T have no doubt,” said the sister-in-law, sweet- 
ly, “that Margaret will be Mayoress some day, 


138 


for it is not to be expected Joseph will rest con- 
tent as an’ Alderman.” 

“Well, I did hear a whisper the town would 
appreciate Joseph’s claim to election; but he is 
so retiring, you know.” 

“Soon retire altogether, I suspect,” said the 
doctor, pleasantly ; and great harmony prevailed 
at the doctor’s dinner table. 


—_—_—_—— 


CHAPTER XL. 
THE REY. ROBERT EVELYN’S. DIARY. 


“October the Twenty-first.—Memorable as the 
day of our removal from Torquay. Don’t like 
removals. Felt leaving the old faces; I believe 
most were sorry. A Tea, Presentation, and Ad- 
dress, all very satisfactory. The children of the 
Sunday-schools gave me Kitto’s work—had one 
already, but valued it all the same. 

“Have experienced considerable difficuliy with 
Constance; never knew the child so contrary be- 
fore; didn’t want to leave Torquay ; would rather 
not go to Brighton; did I mind’ her being placed 
at school? Any where rather than go with me 
upon my new field of duty. Now this is most ex- 
traordinary; the girl must be demented. 

“The more extraordinary, remembering old 
kindnesses ! 

“T was at home at once upon driving to the 
comfortable house Mr. Garland has been kind 
enough to take for me; every thing arranged as 
I could wish. Constance did not like it at all; 
found fault with every mortal thing ; endeavored, 
I thought, to excite my distaste. Most extraordi- 
nary; can not understand it. There is literally 
not a loop-hole for complaint. 

‘“‘ All the evening Constance very disquieted, 
as unlike as possible to her usual calm, lady-like 
manners. I said to her,‘ You are feverish, my 
love!’ holding her little hand in mine. She said, 
‘Yes, papa, and if you do not mind, I will go to 
bed! And she went, at 8.45. Most extraordi- 
nary! 

“T rather anticipated a call from Mr. Garland, 
but I suppose he was otherwise engaged. What 
an embarrassing matter it is becoming used to a 
new name I was about to write—well, what I am 
requested not to write, nor speak, nor think! 

“October the Twenty-second—A note by the 
morning post: would I call upon Mr. Garland, as 
he was so very busy? Called. Kind as ever; 
hoped I should enjoy better health in this more 
bracing air; hoped my daughter was very well: 
rather indifferently, I thought, but always kind; 
hoped our house was to my convenience ; hoped 
Miss Constance was pleased with it, which Miss 
Constance is not, nor, I think, will ever be. Most 
extraordinary ! 

“Mr. Garland described my call as merely one 
of welcome; he would not trouble me about the 
duties just yet. 

“Went home; Constance in the kitchen, see- 
ing about dinner. ‘Been out, papa?’ I told her 
I had made a visit of courtesy to our kind friend. 
‘Oh? she said, in an icy sort of fashion quite 
new to her, and floured the fowl with such vigor 
that I said, ‘Waste not, want not, my dear!’ 
‘Yes, papa,’ she said, with a curious manner I 
did not quite like. I fancy the change of air is 
not agreeing with my invariably good little girl. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“After dinner I placed my books in position 
in their new quarters; alteration for the better 
so far as the room is concerned. Our friend is a 
marvelously thoughtful man; I am sure the re- 
laxing climate of South Devon would have totally 
prostrated me had I remained much longer, ‘I 
think it very likely,’ said I to Constance, upon 
her peeping in to see how I was progressing, 
‘that Mr. Garland is coming to tea.’ ‘Indeed, 
papa!’ And she helped me a little while with 
my books and papers, and then ran down stairs 
to her housekeeping. 

“T was particularly struck by the extreme 
neatness and order in the house of our friend, 
although it is not furnished with any thing like 
the luxury of this.’ I ventured, when,he was al- 
luding to this house, to say,‘ You have been too 
liberal in providing for our comfort ;’ whereat, 
with a pleasant smile, he replied,‘ You need a 
more comfortable home than I, that your daugh- 
ter may be happy.’ And she isn’t. Most extraor- 
dinary ! 

“T fancy if ever girl was brought up well, was 
taught contentment with station, gratitude to 
Providence, thankfulness to kind friends, dutiful 
obedience, and modest self-possession, that girl 
is my daughter; and yet, with all my careful 
rearing, she appears to be developing an opin- 
ionativeness which is eminently grievous to a fa- 
ther in holy orders. 

“Upon ringing for Constance to come and sort 
my manuscript sermons, I was informed by our 
maid that Miss Evelyn had gone out. This did 
not so much matter. I thought she had proba- 
bly gone to look at our new church; but the cli- 
max of her strange freak was realized when she 
did not come in to tea. I felt annoyed, because, 
had Mr. Garland looked in, I should have liked 
her to preside. But, as it fortunately happened, 
he did not. 

“Constance came in at half past eight; had 
been for a walk, looking at the shops. I kissed 
her, and said she was a naughty girl to run away 
thus. 

‘“‘Sat up rather late, looking through the best 
of my sermons for future use when not feeling 
very well. 

“Caught Constance in tears over her work. 
Whatever has come to the girl ? 

“October the Twenty-third—After breakfast 
this morning I said, ‘If you will put your hat on, 
my dear, we will call and pay our respects to Mr. 
Garland.’ But there was so much to do in the 
house; and her morning dress was shabby, she 
must see about a new one; and she had letters 
to write to her friends in Torquay, which must 
go out by the 4.15 post ; therefore would I please 
excuse her? I did so, because unable by any 
possibility to turn her. I felt vexed, because, I ad- 
mit it, I am proud of my darling. She is so beau- 
tiful, that wherever we call her presence is the 
most satisfactory note of introduction. I have 
found that out; but I have never known her to 
be so disagreeable as at the present time in this 
matter of Brighton. I have no patience with 
such extraordinary crotchets. 

“Called and found Mr. Garland closeted with 
some poor working-man, who passed me with 
bowed head but the most happy expression of 
countenance I ever witnessed. I was admitted 
at once, and we went to business. Our parish 
seems bounded by the Downs, the sea, Rotting- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


dean, and Shoreham. ‘I recognize no appointed 
limits for the doing of good or distribution of 
charity, my dear friend,’ was the introduction to 
this tremendous area. Most extraordinary! I 
confess I am more in favor of the streets imme- 
diately around the church, and I do not consider 
it orthodox to overstep the line of our parish. It 
is apt to give offense to one’s spiritual neighbors ; 
besides, I think the clerical rolling stone gathers 
no moss. Of course I did not make this admis- 
sion to our good friend, whom I will join heart 
and soul in his great and broad system of chari- 
ty; but such are my principles. Mr. Garland al- 
ready has an able coadjutor in Spencer Webb, a 
capital fellow; only one thing against him—he’s 
a Cambridge man. Mr. Garland was very kind in 
his inquiries concerning Constance. How queer 
he must think it I don’t bring the child! I made 
all the excuses possible, but he is not like any one 
else; he would see through a brick wall. 

- “YLater, Webb and I called upon some of the 
people. Met my new Bishop on the King’s 
Road—received my introduction with delightful 
courtesy. 

“ Altogether I am becoming accustomed to the 
exchanged sphere, and believe I shall feel very 
comfortable. Mr. Garland has an enormous con- 
gregation, chiefly dons. 

“Was much struck, when upon the road to- 
day, by a most haughty-looking woman. I was 
shocked by the imperious cast of feature, and 
thought its wearer needed reminding that the 
most disdainful of sovereigns must inevitably be- 
come as the dust of Egypt. Webb told me it 
was Lady Helen Darrell, a member of Mr. Gar- 
land’s church, therefore I think it more than 
probable she has been already reminded of that 
great truth. 

“Mr. Garland looked in after tea. Upon hear- 
ing the knock my child blushed, then turned very 
white, and, aware of her intention, I stood by the 
door to prevent her escape, so Miss Willful was 
trapped. But now ensued a most extraordinary 
circumstance. Instead of following the servant 
and entering our parlor, where every thing was 
cozy and in preparation, he just stepped into the 
room I use as a library. Of course I at once 
went and remonstrated, begging he would take us 
as we were, excuse homeliness, and so on. ‘I 
am always careful about intruding upon family 
privacy, Evelyn. I hold those rooms to be sa- 
cred habitually occupied by the members of a 
family, and upon no account to be trespassed 
upon by strangers.’ Most considerate, I’m sure, 
but, in the interim, my bird had flown, and I 
can not help fancying he did it purposely. All 
this is very extraordinary ! 

“Sent up for Constance. Would I pardon her 
not coming down, as she had a severe headache ? 
‘Pray do not ask it,’ said our friend; ‘the change 
to this Brighton air often takes an unpleasant ef- 
fect at first. I merely called to explain my dis- 
section of districts, that yourself and Mr. Webb 
may equally divide the visiting.’ He took from 
his pocket a complete chart of streets in the poor 
and middle-class quarters, and I found my ground 
marked red, and Webb’s blue. ‘By this guide 
you will avoid walking in each other’s foot-prints, 
an inadvertence the poor resent. Make no for- 
mality of the work; do not enter if the people are 
engaged ; interchange a greeting and withdraw, 
calling at a more opportune season; tact and del- 


139 


icacy in this matter are half the battle. Do not 
press literature. If they seem disposed to wel- 
come it, introduce the best we can provide; you 
will find one of the rooms in my house well stored. 
I shall feel glad if you will take, at discretion, 
whatever suits your purpose. And my house- 
keeper will receive the addresses of all to whom 
you desire wine, jelly, soup, beef tea, broth, fruit, 
or plainer food dispatched. You will favor my 
housekeeper at Hawkingdean with instructions 
as to flannel, blankets, hose, calico, or other cloth- 
ing, that good lady taking supervision of this de- 
partment. I shall place at your disposal a check 
for ten pounds monthly, the sum Mr. Webb has 
been kindly disbursing for me. This will not, of 
course, relieve the most pressing cases of priva- 
tion; these you will set down to my account.’ 

“This is, as closely as I can remember, the sub- 
stance of Mr. Garland’s pithy directions; and if 
he is not a good man, and one exempt from all 
temptation of the world, the flesh, and the devil, 
then my name is not Robert Evelyn. 

“ Ah! Constance at the piano; that is the 
plaintive strain we used to have at Torquay, but 
it seems long since I heard it. I do believe not 
since the closing of those pleasant evenings at 
Eagle Hall. Even Constance, dear child, felt the 
loss of those kind friends most deeply. 

“October the Twenty-fourth—My poor wife’s 
birthday. She never did like my keeping a diary, 
and would say that God alone needed to treasure 
in remembrance the good or ill of men’s making, 
and that we should only preserve our daily mem- 
ory of Him. 

“Yet I would not let such deeds as Westley 
Garland’s go unchronicled; rather write in gold- 
en letters the veriest words and acts of that good 
man. 

“Tt will make it excessively unpleasant for me 
in my relation with Mr. Garland if Constance 
maintains this evident aversion, which is the most 
mysterious of all my experiences. After prayers 
last evening, when the servant had retired, I rea- 
soned with my child, and very kindly, but all I 
could get out of her was this, ‘It is nothing, dear 
papa; please not to take any notice of it.’ 

‘To-day I prepared my first sermon for preach- 
ing in Brighton. I am to deliver it at evening 
service on Sunday next. I hope that proud wom- 
an won’t sit directly opposite, transfixing me with 
her defiant stare. Ialways feel a degree uncom- 
fortable until I become used to a pulpit and the 
people, 

‘“‘ My servant with a card. A gentleman would 
like a word or two with me. Certainly. I pin 
the card here for future reference: 


11 CN, CN oct Banad, 


“Regina Cottage.” 


we res 


CHAPTER XLL 
A BEAUTY QUEST. 


Few men in Society were more popular than 
Lord Frank Ellerby: a wit, refined, and with 
great taste, he was excellent company, and in 
much request. Lord Ellerby’s house in Brighton 
was a complete art collection, where the rare and 
the beautiful blended in delicate rivalry. He 
had a passionate admiration for the beautiful ; 


140 


and even as some statue will soothe like a song, 
some face like the cadence of rare music, this 
connoisseur of the exquisite had been spell-bound 
before a picture. It was at the Royal Academy. 
A warm afternoon, a crowd, for it was one of 
the closing days of the exhibition. Lord Eller- 
by had but recently returned from Switzerland, 
and ventured the fatigue and braved the crush in 
the interests of art. He had strolled through 
the galleries, not overimpressed; had taken ev- 
ery thing as coolly as possible and with undevi- 
ating good humor, and was about leaving, when 
his attention was caught by a face upon the can- 
vas so uncommon and so perfect by all the laws 
of loveliness that he brought his weary saunter to 
a stand-still, reveling in a fairer vision than he had 
seen in all his travels. 

' “Ts the artist, ma. Look how he’s admiring 
it!’ Thus inferred a spectral maiden. 

“Don’t see any thing in the picture, my ‘child ; 
extravagantly unreal. Come along; there’s a lov e- 
ly Punch and Toby !” 

On another side— 

“ Striking face that, Celeste ?” 

“Oh, do you think so? Is it clematis or jas- 
mine? A pretty frame-work; don’t see much in 
the face. Mrs. Macdonald, what do you think of 
the face ?” 

“Wouldn’t hang it in my nursery. What’s 
the next? Potiphar’s wife. That’sa sweet study. 
Let’s sit down.” 

The absorbed critic also sat down, but the peo- 
ple’s talk seemed sacrilege. 

He turned to the catalogue and read, 

“104, Frora. Portrait or THE DAUGHTER OF 
J. ARTHUR ANDERSON, Esq. MILLETT.”’ 

Yes, that was the name. Of course he was no 
wiser, but he felt a strange gladness it was not 
the daughter of some high and exalted person- 
age. Yet Mr.J. Arthur Anderson might be as 
unapproachable. 

One other matter gave him gratification—there 
was no red star upon the frame denoting it Soxp. 
He would return in the morning when the place 
was quiet; he would be first, and view the pic- 
ture at his leisure, when the gallery was flooded 
with cool morning light; he would view it from 
a distance; he would examine it close, with rev- 
erent attention; read it, line by line, like some 
wondrous poem, when there were none near to 
comment upon his actions. 

Awkwardly, most awkwardly, he had trodden 
upon an old gentleman’s toes. The old gentle- 
man swore. He apologized, and walked over ‘to 
Potiphar’s wife. He saw the old fellow in front 
of the picture long afterward, and experienced a 
jealous pang, as though he had an interest in the 
daughter of J. Arthur Anderson already. 

He quitted the Academy, resolving to return in 
the morning. 

He leaned back in his carriage with closed eyes, 
musing upon the face. 

“Flora!” he repeated to himself ; and if it was 
the girl’s name, it did not take his fancy. 

Long before reaching his house near Regent’s 
Park he had resolved to purchase the picture on 
the morrow. The more he recalled that pensive 
face, the more he loved it; and “ To-morrow,” he 
repeated softly to himself, as though afraid the 
very wind might forestall his purpose. 

At home he walked about his rooms, set the 
gas and tapers burning, fancied he saw it upon 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the walls or carefully veiled upon an easel. Heé 
would hang it here in his study; no, there in the 
drawing-room. Nonsense! it should not hang at 
all; the sun would fade the matchless bloom upon 
the cheek, the air would injure its delicacy, dust 
or smoke would sully the fair purity. It should 
be in his bed-chamber, upon a dainty rest of fine 
Swiss carving—daily his morning welcoome—and 
tapers should burn before it while he passed with 
it into dream-world. 

They had barely opened the doors at the Acad- 
emy before Lord Ellerby arrived. The officials 
imagined him a student. He passed them with 
a civil “ Good-morning,” feeling a little ashamed 
of this infatuation; yet it was as strong upon 
him as on the preceding day. 

He made for the gallery. Room VII.—Some- 
body there! And before his picture ! 

He felt wicked, for he recognized the ferocious 
old gentleman whose corns he had assaulted. 

He had probably been there some time, and he 
would probably be more polite in the morning 
than in the evening, for when he saw his lordship 
making for the picture he kindly bustled away. 
His lordship was grateful, and thought better of 
the old gentleman. A philanthropist, no doubt; 
one living unselfishly for the good of others. He 
was thinking thus, when the price clerk came and 
stuck a red star upon the frame of his picture. 

“Not sold?” he gasped. 

“To the gentleman who was here five minutes 
ago, Sir.” 

"He staggered back, and hid the face from his 
eyes, for it burned with regretful pain. 

To fancy it the property of that old Goth! 
Some Manchester millionaire, no doubt, with the 
art tastes of an auctioneer. To imagine it upon 
the wall of some wildly vulgar drawing-room, 
where the entire arrangement was an outrage, in 
a hideously big red-bricked mansion! It was 
desecration ! 

Would he be open to consider an increased of- 
fer? Just the man, no doubt. He would discov- 
er his name and address, would treat with him, 
would open golden negotiations forthwith; the 
Vandal should not escape him. 

One look—fond, but. not the last—and away 
to the price clerk. He was politely allowed to 
inspect the form. The price clerk was interest- 
ed. His lordship explained the circumstances. 
The price clerk smiled kindly. His lordship 
noted down the name and address. The price 
clerk looked grave. His lordship caught the in- 
fection, and waited. ‘ 

“Tm afraid you'll find Mr. Grannett a hard one 
to deal with, Sir; he looks a elose-fisted one.’ 

“T_am—sure of it,” replied his lordship, col: 
lectedly. 

“T remember last season he hought a paintings 
and one of the frame corners was chipped: the 
trouble he gave us about that piece of business 
nobody knows.” 

“T am surprised the portrait is for sale at all. 
Who is J. Arthur Anderson ?” 

“ A gentleman at Clapton: the young lady is 
his only child.” 

“You know them ?” 

“Not at all; I heard Mr. Millett speaking of 
them.” 

“A long sum was iid him, I doubt not, for 
painting it. It is exquisitely done.” 

vs A long sum was paid, Sir, but by Mr. Millett 


A MODERN 


himself. He was struck by the young lady’s 
beauty, I heard him say, and lost no time in se- 
curing it for his canvas.’ 

“That seems to me a new way of working int 
Mr. Anderson must be a curious person.” 

“Something of a miser, I have heard; 
wealthy.” j 

All this had altered matters. If he could but 
interview Mr. Grannett, he might buy the picture ; 
but however that would end, to form the acquaint- 
ance of Mr. Anderson and his lovely daughter 
_ would be to attain the summit of his hopes at 
once. 

“As a great favor, would you give me Mr. An- 
derson’s address ?” 

“T do not know it, Sir, Mr. Millett might per- 
haps give it you; he resides at Clapton.” 

Thanking his civil informant, Lord Ellerby de- 
parted—Claptonward. He had never been there 
before ; he would improve his knowledge of Lon- 
don at once. He did not know where it was, but 
instructed his man to find it, and doubted not he 
would do so. 

He did, after what seemed hours’ riding. Lord 
Ellerby wondered what time next day Clapton 


very 


folks could arrive home after visiting St. James’s 
Theatre. He referred to his note-book : 

“Jeremiah Grannett, Malachite House, 
Grove, Clapton.” 

To calculate moderately, perhaps his man was 
double the time finding Oak Grove that he had 
been finding Clapton. Had his lordship been a 
foreign ambassador, anxious to secure an impres- 
sion of London out in that direction, nothing could 
have been finer, but as it was, he grew somewhat 
irritable. The Spartan composure upon which 
he prided himself, under which he thought to en- 
dure any thing unmoved from hard words to hail- 
stones, and which his friends called his confound- 
ed coolness, and his enemies his diabolic self-pos- 
session—this glorious quality which enabled a 
man, as he said, to light his cigar at that burning 
affair near Naples; quietly to undress when the 
balloon was descending swiftly toward the sea ; 
easily and pleasantly to finish an article during a 
railway accident; calmly to brush one’s teeth be- 
fore doing any thing else when aroused, in the 


Oak 


dead of night, by the cry that the stairs were on 
fire; to wind up one’s watch while the ship was 
sinking—this enviable, imperturbable repose was 
ruffled altogether by his beauty chase. 


When Oak Grove was found, Malachite House 
seemed likely to hold out the same trouble. <A 
butcher’s boy did—no, he did not know Malachite 
House, stared stupidly, and vanished. A govern- 
ess in black, with two red-haired children, did— 
no, she did not know Malachite House, looked 
frightened, and walked on swiftly, evidently pos- 
sessed with the idea that the fell design was theft 
of the saffron-locked cherubs. A draper’s assist- 
ant, with a yard-stick he half ashamedly wielded 
as a walking-cane, and an emptied warehouse on 
his back—no, /e did not know Malachite House, 
“ didn’t know the name at all.” Next they hail- 
ed a brewer’s dray; its ponderous progress was 
brought to a stand. Could the driver tell them 
where Malachite House was? That man swore at 
them; he didn’t know no Malachites, and thought 
they’d had a drop too much. A policeman did 
—no, the name was strange to him, he was fresh 
on that beat; then, thinking they were making 
fun of him, walked on indignantly. A nurse- 


MINISTER. 141 


maid with an infant thought they were making 
advances, frowned, and hurried on in the rear of 
the policeman. A lady—ancient study—ringlets, 
dog, knitting-pins, and reticule; no, she did not 
know Malachite House, but would help them to 
search for it with very great pleasure. They 
looked at one another, master and man. Lord 
Ellerby, retreating to shelter of his carriage, al- 
lowed his lackey to continue the quest at leisure ; 
his lordship had, apparently, taken up his abode 
in that grove. 

Somebody else came in view, either a prize- 
fighter or an idiot. Would John interrogate, he 
wondered. Yes! And this splendid fellow did 
know Malachite House. John came to his mas- 
ter with a face quite radiant, and mounting, drove 
on for the house. 

Malachite at last! And old Grannett doing 
something in the garden. 

Lord Ellerby walked up to him. 

“Ah! Good-morning! Just turning out the 
slugs ?” 

This in dulcet tones, with a fascinating smile. 

“You remember me, Mr. Grannett ?” 

“Can’t say I do. Who are you, and what do 
you want? Parish doctor, I suppose!” with a 
sneer. 

“T have not the privilege of being that person. 
But I—I had the honor of treading upon your 
toes yesterday.” 

“The devil you did, Sir! You were not the 
only one; they were at it all day. All London 
and the provinces were at that game yesterday, 
because it was hotter than usual. What have you 
come about ?” 

“A picture you bought. You forestalled me.” 

“ Thought so,” rubbing his hands gleefully, and 
cackling like a dragon. 

“Funny, isn’t it?” said his lordship, with sar- 
donic effect; whereon the other stuck his spade 
sharply into the mould. 

“My time is precious, Sir ; 
sharp !” 

“Pm obliged to you, but my medical attendant 
expressly forbids excitement, A word with you, 
leisurely ; perhaps— A breakfast-room ?” point- 
ing to a shady retreat, glowing with chintz. 

‘He hobbled off in that dir ection, fuming. 

“ Charmingly laid out, Sir, your garden.” 

He turned “sharply : “Tt il be a shilling when 
it’s open to the public;” and they stepped into 
the breakfast parlor, very prettily furnished, pale 
green and gold; beautiful heads, female studies 
chiefly, upon the delicate paper. 

The old gentleman grufily motioned to a chair, 
and his lordship began business in earnest. 

“TI want. that picture removed to my house in- 
stead of yours, Mr. Grannett. What will satisfy 
you? 9”) 

They eyed each other keenly. Mr. Grannett 
twitched off an antimacassar, made a ball, and 
took aim at a fly upon the nose of a classical 
masterpiece. 

“Glad when winter comes to get rid of those 
brutes. The picture—hum—well, double what I 
gave at the Academy.” 

The visitor did not appear to exhibit any sur- 
prise; not because the exorbitant demand did 
not startle, but because he made it a point to 
avoid surprise. Mr. Grannett smiled grimly as 
he took out his check-book. 

“Asreed. Oblige me with pen and ink.” 


state your business, 


142 
He did so—silently. And Lord Ellerby wrote 


in compliance with the extravagant demand. He 


held it between finger and thumb as if it would 
bite. 

- “You're the queerest customer I’ve had dealings 
with yet; and I made my money as a broker.” 

“Thank you,” responded his lordship, with icy 
languor, for the old one was doubly objectionable 
on that account. 

“You must—excuse me. Do you take a strong 
interest in the girl to give that amount for her 
picture ?” 

“T do; I admit it. 
they live ?” 

It was useless standing upon delicacy with a 
man like that. 

“JT can; and will give you the picture upon one 
condition.” 

It was now Lord Ellerby’s turn to be astonished. 

“ That you marry her !” 

Composure came to his aid. “I shall be de- 
lighted,” he said, and he meant it. 

“Anderson, you must know, is a miser, a man 
of no principle, a thorough old scamp; in short, 
my brother-in-law !” 

“Sorry to hear of the relationship,” said his 
lordship. 

“An old maiden aunt left Flora thirty thou- 
sand pounds, to pass from her use and posses- 
sion the day she is married—” 

“When, I suppose, the money passes into your 
hands ?” 

“Into mine.” 

“ Your proposal is very disinterested.” 

This pleasant old man was improving rapidly 
in his lordship’s estimation. He evidently stood 
as little upon delicacy as possible. 

“‘T accept the picture.” His lordship rose, tak- 
ing back the check. ‘‘ Give me the address. ° If 
I am fortunate enough to win the young lady’s 
love, she will never know the loss of her thirty 
thousand pounds.” 

He fumbled at an untidy, dirty desk, and scrib- 
bled it down. 

“And now your written instructions about the 
picture, or they will not deliver it.” 

“To be forfeited if you never marry Flora An- 
derson.” 

His lordship signed to that effect, and took his 
departure, never more rejoiced to quit a dwelling. 
Be Anderson what he might, he would not be as 
objectionable in his eyes as this old man. 

“Where to, Sir?” 

He looked at the address, 

“ Hackney Gravel-Pits.” 

“Beg pardon, Sir?” +The man touched his hat. 

Lord Ellerby gave him the paper. Another 
case of asking. They might as well have been in 
the interior of Africa. Better! The general pub- 
lic would have been more enlightened. 

They fortunately came upon a lady who knew 
the Gravel-Pits and every corner public-house 
between. 

oh ee Ander ‘son, Esq., The Willows, Hackney 
Gravel-Pit 

“What hamtess have men with lovely daugh- 
ters to live in gravel-pits? Intended for conies 
and such creatures—disgusting !”’ muttered his 
lordship. 

They discovered “The Willows” at three min- 
utes past five, the wind in the northeast. 

“Lively situation!” and with a dubious coun- 


Will you tell me where 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


tenance Frank, Lord Ellerby stood by the gate. 
He glanced upward, and saw a vision at a window 
—a head like to the head of Moliére’s “ L’Hypo- 
condriaque.” 

He walked up the garden path—stones, not a 
flower any where, oyster shells, hardware grotto 
ornaments. <A big slice of ground, but no prod- 
uce, not even a weed. 

“Unhappy Anderson, Esquire! 
thou art not so cheerless within.” 

Thus ruminating he rang a bell, which pleas- 
antly trifled with the air some ten minutes; for 
that bell—truly an alarm that might have been 
heard in Westminster Abbey, traffic eign’) I 
was suspended in the yard rearward. 

No response. 

Calmly, nay, pleasantly, his lordship waited, for 
he would not that the sun should go down upon 
his impatience. Go down it would, if he had to 
wait much longer. 

It was not a bell leaving any doubt about its 
being heard; a truly Shakspearean dreadful bell, 
that rang all over the pits and warrens. 

He would not ring again ; the clatter frighten- 
ed him. The mare might bolt, or a fire-engine 
come dashing up. A hundred things might hap- 
pen. He would not ring again; he would biv- 
ouac. He unfolded a newspaper, spread it on the 
top steps, sat upon the money markets, and leaned 
his back against the miser’s door. Disturbed by 
a cracked voice above, he leisurely raised his eyes 
to the altitude of a bed-chamber. 

“Go away; we’ve nothing to give you—not a 
farthing or a scrap in the house. There’s a dog 
at the back.” 

And a bell, he thought. He was taken for a 
mendicant; it was of no consequence, but the fact 
remained. The Moliére head was withdrawn, and 
the window dropped like a portcullis. 

He looked sweetly up and prepared for taking 
the fort. Baying of a blood-hound was heard 
from the rear, and he experienced the “ Dred” 
sensation of the transpontine theatre. 

But at this thrilling moment there was great 
rattling of bolts and bars and chains, and the 
door opened. 

Anderson, Esquire, stood within, in his night- 
cap, a napkin tucked under his chin, a spoon in 
one hand, a gun in the other. 

“How do you do?” asked his lordship, cheer- 
ily. ‘Poorly, I fear,” commiseratingly. “Mr. 
Anderson, I believe ?” re-assuringly. 

And then this pleasant papa of the future 
spoke, with groan accompaniment, 

“What do you require? Speak, or I will not 
answer for the consequences.” 

“‘T have called upon a little private business, 
if you— 

“State it where you are, Sir; I admit no stran- 
gers.” 

“Tf you wish it. I am desirous of investing 
some money to the best advantage. I dared to 
think you would advise me; your experience is 
well and deservedly known.” 

The night-cap was knocked off, the hands 
clutched the dressing-gown ; he shufied a step or 
two nearer. 

“Tt hasn’t done me much service I’m wretch- 
edly poor. Walk in.” 

Suddenly he turned—‘‘Is that your shay ?” 

“If you like, facetiously, to eall it so, it is.” 

“Horse your own?” © 


Let us hope 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


“Very much so—in exchange for a hundred 

ineas.” 

His metallic old eyes glittered. 

“Man your own ?” 

“In my employ.” 

“ Just tell him to see the brute don’t nibble 
the laurels next door. I can’t pay any damages 
of that sort.” 

His lordship gave the necessary instructions, 
and then followed Mr. J. Arthur Anderson into 
the house. 

He found a spacious hall, with nothing in it. 
A spacious back-room, no carpet, wooden chairs, 
and a deal table. This was the tent wherein the 
patriarch dwelt. Not oppressive with luxury. It 
presented economy under a restrictive aspect. 

“ Be seated.” 

His lordship tried one of the wooden chairs. 

“J have a thousand pounds, Mr. Anderson, for 
investment. I like to drop a thousand each year 
into something. I have the honor to be inter- 
ested in every thing, I think, from penny steam- 
boats to Petersburg photographs, not to mention 
gas companies, foreign loans, and railways.” 

“Your name is Cook ?” 

“Unfortunately no. Iam not that great man, 
nor connected. You simply have the pleasure of 
beholding Frank Ellerby.” 

“ Lord Ellerby ?” 

“Yes, men are good enough even to use that 


handle. To my friends I am Ellerby—Ellerby to 
you, if agreeable. Can you oblige me with a glass 
of water ?” 


Lord Ellerby wanted to see this daughter, and 


for that would endure his aversion—the tasteless: 


fluid. 

“With pleasure. Iam glad you drink water; 
we can not afford any thing else.” 

“‘Hard times!” and his lordship sighed sympa- 
thetically, although he believed the old man pos- 
sessed more wealth than himself. 

He walked nimbly to the door... It was aston- 
ishing to see the change for the better in his mal- 
ady; and he screamed up stairs, 

“Flora! Flora! A glass of water directly— 
see the tap isn’t left running!” Then to his vis- 
itor, ‘“ Between ’em, they waste more than their 
heads are worth.” 

His lordship was inspecting, out of the window, 
the back garden, with its wilderness of old tiles 
and bricks (Mr. Anderson brought one home in 
his pocket every time he went out, and did his 
own repairs), at the dog-kennel without a roof, 
and the dog which seemed couchant to prevent 
his bones being seen; at a corner heap of old 
gallipots, and a water-butt falling to pieces. This 
and a magnificent stretch of garden ground ap- 
portioned as a chicken walk where one cadaver- 
ous fowl was supreme autocrat of the bare do- 
main. He was looking out of window at the back 
garden, and he knew that she had entered. 

He had heard the gentle footfall and the low- 
breathed sigh. He would prolong the thrill of 
anticipation no longer; he turned to realize his 
beautiful vision, and— 

Confronted the most hideous maiden that was 
surely ever permitted to go forth unattended. 

Meagre as the dog, wizen-visaged, angular as 
Euclid, ghastly-complexioned, grisly-locked, and 
in black silk worn to an absolute bronze. 

He wondered what Millett had thought of this 
pre-Raphaelite saint of the Gravel-Pits. 


143 


She handed him the water in a tin mug, the 
old man grumbling, 

‘“‘Where’s our glass ?” 

“Brother dear,” responded the spinster, ‘it is 
broken. I would have told you before but for 
your illness.” 

‘An imprecation escaped the old man. 

“The second this year. Well, you’ll have no 
more.” 

The lady of ripened charms looked resigned, 
and took the goblet from the visitor’s outstretched 
hand. His face was averted, for he could not look 
upon this study. 

“Where’s Flora?” His lordship’s heart bound- 
ed. 

“Tacking patches on your stockings, brother ; 
they’re too far gone to darn.” 

“Well, we'll buy no more this year. 
ous. Tell Flora to come here.” 

The maiden retired. His lordship began to 
think the Gravel-Pit family a queer lot. But only 
till Flora came; then he forgot all. 

Such matchless loveliness he had never seen. 
How ever it came of such parentage seemed the 
mystery, and remained so until one day the old 
man produced a miniature of his dead wife: there 
were seen the features, and the Titian shade of 
hair, and the lovely dove-like eyes. A beautiful 
woman; and well he had loved her, for his voice 
lowered when he spoke of his lost wife, and his 
thin hand was shaking as he took back the pic- 
ture. 

Lord Ellerby was not surprised that Millett 
had been glad to paint the face; it was worthy 
his brush. Do not think it was an ideal saintly 
dream, or the splendid tenderness we associate 
with the Madonna’s face; it was far too human: 
wickedly mirthful as the faces of those loving 
little Italians who beset the opera doors in Na- 
ples. He was very fond of those saint heads— 
in pictures; in life, give him wickedness. 

“My daughter, Sir. Flora love, Lord Ellerby.” 

He shook hands with Flora. He did not tell 
him this was a beauty quest; that this was the 
aim and end of his journey. And how did he 
feel concerning Flora, now face to face with his 
ideal? Candidly, she surpassed all he had im- 
agined, and it was beauty that would increase— 
mature with the years. He was satisfied, was 
more than compensated. 

Later, he heard it was a dream of the old 
man’s heart to make this girl, his pride, wealthy 
after he was gone; and for her sake did Lord 
Ellerby forgive him his penurious habits. He 
loved her, after a curious fashion, even before 
his gold, ay, and before his life. Else, when she 
stood but as high as their deal table, and a fire 
broke out above, would he have dashed so madly 
into her blazing red-hot bedroom, and torn her 
from the little couch at risk of life and limb ? 

Lord Ellerby learned before he had done with 
him, and robbed him of his pretty flower, to re- 
spect and feel for the solitary man left alone 
with his crotchets in the miserable large waste 
of house and waste of world, where there seemed 
no gladness and no comfort. And he respected 
him doubly for this, that when the time came for 
asking of him his treasure, he did not, as the bold 
suitor dreaded, refuse, but left it in her own wise 
hands, And he who had won the love then won 
the choice. 

But Frank Lord Ellerby had no pity for the 


It’s ruin- 


144 


lonely old man, none; he took her away, as proud 
of his bride as was ever English noble, and as 
worthy of her. And once his own, he had the 
gratification of discovering that beauty, which, he 
was ashamed to say, had been his only quest, was 
the least of those graces which go to the adorn- 
ment of wifehood. Lady Ellerby indeed was 
possessed of innate refinement that shed lustre 
even upon her new name and title, and the charm 
of intellect and quick appreciation of the beauti- 
ful rendered her a fitting companion in every re- 
spect for the gifted young peer. At last his 
creed and his faith had taken shape, and he was 
the proud possessor of a realized ideal in every 
particular. And if for this alone his name is 
well chronicled, such examples being conspicu- 
ous by their rarity. 


“wry DAUGHTER, SIR. 


Sometimes he would remember that the dear 
are human, and that the doubly dear are doubly 
human, and that beauty is but a shadow; but 
then, with that cheerful philosophy, his strongest 
point, he would say to himself, “ And I believe in 
shadows; the world would be a bare, blank, 
fierce hot wall without ;’ and would think his 
beauty quest at least had the moral of Bacon’s 
words—“ That is the best part of beauty which a 
picture can not express.” Yet the picture was 
passing fair, as she would sit between him and 
the open window, looking upon the sea and the 
glorious autumn sunsets of Brighton; between 
him and the flowers; standing forth from the 
sky with: its ruby and rose, from the sea with 
its flushed sheen of green and of gold; a face 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


small, classic, profiled like the most exquisite 
cameo graven or carved of Italian stone; a form 
slight, symmetrically made; a sculpture all 
sweeps and curves and lines of grace in rhythm 
one with another; a fair flower-wife, delicate, 
gentle, and good, and with a soul—this repre- 
sented much to Frank Ellerby. “I meet so 
many soulless people,” he would say, ‘ especially 
in England. I attribute it to absence of scenery 
and to a lack of the poetical.” One day he was 
speaking of this to Flora, and he said, . 

““Tf ever I saw soul written upon a man’s face, 
I saw it to-day. I could not help asking who he 
was, and I was informed the Rev. Westley Gar- 
land. Iam sorry to say I never went to church 
very much before my Flora directed my steps 


thither, but I certainly think we ought to settle 


FLORA LOVE, LORD ELLERBY.” 


down somewhere. I am disposed to like St. 
Michael’s, but we will go and hear this famous 
preacher, and if we are impressed as much as 
are others of his hearers, we can not do better than 
take a pew at his church, supposing one is to be 
obtained. By-the-way, my love, you must read 
his new book. I read it in Paris.” 

“Tn Paris ?” 

“In Paris, where a translation was published 
simultaneously. The work is popular there, as it 
should be, extolling one of their celebrities. Isee 
there is a notice of the book in the Buckingham.” 

“Read it, dear; I should like to hear wha 
your favorite journal says about it.” . 

Lord Ellerby read aloud from the journal 


quoted: ; 


a 7 ——* 


A MODERN 


“The Rev. Westley Garland has again astonished 
the world by another eccentric production, in which 
the flowers of a gorgeous rhetoric scem scattered 
broadcast, as usual; but we think a deeper meaning 
underlies this romantic study from a life of the last 
century—that itis wise to preserve a brave heart, come 
honor or dishonor, and patiently to work on, wait on, 
even in the very face of poverty, calumny, ‘and trou- 
ble. The reverend gentleman has added one more ju- 
dicious selection from great lives in illustration of 
those noble truths it is hisinvariable custom to impress 
upon the reader; and while we dissent from the poet- 
ical rhapsodies into which he is often betrayed, this is 
rather an error of sensitiveness than of taste, and we 
can not but commend the general elegance of the com- 

osition. Asa dainty reflex of the w vonderful changes 
‘in a remarkable career the work is worthy of attentive 
perusal, and we thank the author for this artistic little 
drama of seasons. But while doing so, our readers will 
readily understand that we do not t indorse all the sen- 
timents either of the Rey. Westley Garland or of the 
Viscount de Chiiteaubriand, whose questionable policy 
and inconsistency of action were at one period the 
scandal of Europe.” 


Lord Ellerby smiled. 

“The Buckingham will have its rap, even in a 
review. Well, I think this cleric may feel pretty 
satisfied; it is a very fair notice indeed. The 
next thing i is to send for the book.” 

His lordship, however, remembered this was to 
be obtained only of the ‘author, and he decided to 
call himself for three copies. It was no great 
distance to the Minister’s town residence, and his 
lordship elected to walk. Upon the way he met 
the Earl of Comdarlington, who at once offered 
to introduce him to the lion. 

“So glad to have met you, as the chances are 
you would only have seen Webb, who transacts 
this literary business for Mr. Garland. You ought 
to know the Minister ;* quite a man after your own 
heart, I believe—a scholar, a poet, and a gentle- 
man. ” 

Lord Ellerby bowed with a pleasant smile. 

“You compliment me, my lord; but I don’t 
mind it from you, because I am satisfied it is sin- 
cere.” 

At which Lord Comdarlington bowed with a 
pleasant smile; and having thus amicably en- 
chanted each other, nobility presented quite a 
radiant pair of faces while mounting the upward 
road leading to the Minister’s house. 

Not one of the most imposing of roads, not 
high-rented houses, but eminently select. 

The earl presented his card. Was Mr. Garland 
at home to visitors ? 

Mr. Garland was at home to visitors, po at that 
moment engaged. Would his lordship step to 
the drawing-room ? 

‘A somewhat gloomy room. He had taken this 
house furnished; the trappings had seen the best 
of their days, the gilding was tarnished, the paint 
discolored, but upon the table were choice vol- 
umes, works not discoverable in the ordinary 
drawing-room. 

“An édition de luxe here!” The critical eye 
had detected the treasure in a moment. 

“What is it?” asked the earl, indifferently. 
His tastes did not lie in the direction. 

“ Tes Arts Somptuaires. Bound -by Riviére, 
too.. And I declare here is Didot’s Paul e¢ Vir- 
gine and La Pucelle. Look at this, my lord,” 

“ No, thanks ; don’t care much for those unique 
specimens.” 

“And here’s a Capé, and Bozerain—Le Moy- 
en Age et la Renaissance ; and here is. Wood’s 
Athene Oxoniensis, Have not seen the old 
friend for an age, And here’s a grand affair 

K 


MINISTER. 145 


—Les Hmaux de Petitot, du Musée eephitaian du 
Louvre,” 

“Mr, Garland will see you, Sir.” 

They followed the servant. At the foot of the 
stairs they were passed by a poor widow woman 
coming from an audience with the Minister, and 
for whom these lords had been kept waiting until 
she had quite closed her pathetic interview. The 
earl shrugged his shoulders; he did not half like 
this disregard of caste, but he knew one might 
as well try to convert a statue of bronze to any 
slighting of the poor or the unfortunate. 

He was gravely writing, but upon entrance of 
the visitors, wiped the pen with scrupulous care, 
laid it alongside others upon the stand, and, ris- 
ing, bowed a little distantly. 

‘“‘Good-morning, Mr. Garland. Hope you are 
well, Sir. Allow me to introduce my friend Lord 
Ellerby.” 

The gentleman bowed. 

“Lady Ellerby is very anxious to read your 
Triumph of Seasons. My friend here purposed 
calling for some copies, ran upon myself; dis- 
closed the mission precipitating him at a speed 
quite out of the common—a lazy dog in the or- 
dinary way, Mr. Garland—and presuming upon 
very brief acquaintance, I undertook the pleasure 
of an introduction.” 

“ Be seated, Sir.” 

The Minister courteously motioned; there was 
no necessity for further ceremony. 

“TJ think you are not looking very well, Mr. 
Garland.”’ 

“‘T have lost my proper rest of late.” 

“You apply yourself too closely to your studies 
in the still hours,” 

‘These have been closer studies than usual— 
by the sick-bed.” 

“You have been acting the Good Samaritan 
again.” 

‘‘A poor widow’s son and only stay has been 
near to his death, and their sole resources have 
thus been brought to a stand-still. Too poor to 
pay one of the respectable and presumably skilled 
practitioners, she—” 

“‘Sent for the parish doctor, of course !”’ 

“No, my lord, she came for me.” The dry 
manner in which this was said was eminently 
discomforting, yet with so gentle an expression no 
one could have replied thereto. ‘Somehow the 
utterly destitute and unutterably wretched have 
confidence in what we Gospel ministers denomi- 
nate Prayer, and while her son lay dying this 
poor woman thought of myself—thought my im- 
perfect utterance was of more likely efficacy than 
her own.” 

“ Quite right!” cried the earl, approvingly. 

“Not so, my lord. I very quickly undeceived 
the heart-broken and timid mother.” 

‘‘ And you engaged in prayer for her. 
good of you, very!” 

“No; I engaged in prayer with her.” 

The earl tapped a silver snuff-box. Lord Eller- 
by looked with curiosity upon the speaker. He 
could not reconcile it with Les Arts Somptuaires 
and the rest. The earl trifled with an elegant 
China silk handkerchief, as much as to say, 
“You mustn’t be surprised at any thing from our 
talented but eccentric preacher.” 

‘“‘ Well, I hope the patient thus kindly watched 
over is recovering,” said Lord Ellerby, so feeling- 
ly that the reserved Minister thought well of him 


Very 


146 


therefrom ; and to himself, ‘“‘I must get this Gar- 
land to come and see us. He’s a fine fellow; 
Flora will be charmed.” 


a See NE ee 


CHAPTER XLII. 
AT THE SIGN OF THE ‘SEVEN TUNS.” 


Tue entertaining study of N atural History is 
successful in so far as it rivets attention and 
courts inquiry. 

Creatures whose characteristics verge on the 
irregular repay at once the philanthropist and 
the historia. 

The caravan of monkeys supports the menage- 
rie, and the odd people of our acquaintance kind- 
ly sustain the interest of the tea tables. 

When the cynic of antiquity went searching 
for an honest man, he knew himself to be a hum- 
bug of the first water, yet was he accounted wise. 
Our modern cynics think themselves to be wise, 
while every body knows them to be fools. Be- 
tween which we have the genus Hccentrics, with 
their pleasant. commingling of foolery and wis- 
dom. 

The eccentric is an institution tolerated, criti- 
cised, admired, or feared, as the case may be. 

There is the brief and brusque eccentric, and 
the eccentric always ailing, and the exquisite and 
perfumed eccentric, and the eccentric whose charm 
consists in excess of information—they are all 
necessary ‘to the tableaux of Society. 

Eccentrics are dividable by species, the gener- 
ic worth being rated by the bank-book. 

The wealthy eccentric is an Art Patron of dis- 
tinguished tastes. 

The middle-class eccentric is a Peculiar Person 
not quite right. 

The poor eccentric is a person to be avoided— 
he sometimes wants to borrow; he is sure to be 
unpleasant. 

Of the First Division, the Man in the Lords 
takes pre-eminence: his idiosyncrasy proceeds 
from State pressure; the tilt of his marvelous 
hat, the jerk of his Homeric arm, the creak of 
his patent boot, the turn of his unctuous.tongue 
—these are the outer indications of the modern 
Atlas. 

The Man in the Commons follows: he writes, 
and creation reads, while the old women gasp, 
“Wonderful!” He talks, and creation listens, 
and the young women murmur, “ Beautiful!” At 
home he has a garden, and fidgets and worries 
that garden till it is bare as a billiard-ball. He 
has a wife, whom he comprehends in the domes- 
tic budget as a pincushion, watch-pocket, or any 
other useful appendage to the head warder’s cha- 
telaine. He is vulgar, but is borne with for being 
in the House, and his singularities, odious though 
they be, are described as amiable weaknesses. 

The Man on the Bench comes next: he is very 
clever upon Law, and very ignorant upon Human 
Nature; professionally he is more Bench than 
Blackstone, and as coquettish over his wig asa 
girl of sixty; privately he is mildly insolent, and 
ever administering small tranquilizing doses of 
the Queen’s Statutes to his intimate friends. He 
is the idol of little boys about Westminster, and 
the oracle of top-sided edicts. Nobody can probe 
his wisdom, and his head is full of Equity as an 
egg is full of meat; his offspring numbers One, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


and because the youngster partaketh of the parch- 
ment order, he would go to law with Providence 
in a suit on color. His gesticulation is medieval, 
and his eye the misnomer for a filbert ; but being 
on the Bench, and having a string of ragged cap- 
itals chasing his name over the public prints, he 
is much looked up to, is grand vizier and pasha 
rolled into one, while his oddities are traits of 
the constitution. 

Then comes the Man in the Church: strong on 
polemics, pauperism, and punch, vestments, cui- 
sine, and scandal; a decided Christian, and or- 
thodox chess-player ; good at all sorts of Society 
meets, from fox-hunts to christenings ; perfect at 
the dance, and somewhat oblivious of the Thirty- 
nine Articles; charitably inclined, but abstaining 
upon principle; given to the laying up of treas- 
ure and the damning of moths that would cor- 
rupt; partial to the Queen, with whom he would 
play dominos upon the flags of St. Paul’s, and 
having traditional regard for the Fathers, with 
the stereotyped contempt for Curates. The Man 
in the Church has quaint theories and unpleasant 
manners; he talks like a jackdaw and loveth the 


music, while mankind, with awe-struck reverence, 


listens to the echo, 

The Man in the Peerage follows, whose digni- 
ty is not of ancient date, and who did not come 
over arm in arm with the great William: hence 
his weakness takes the form of making sign- 
boards of the backs of chairs, antlering the pas- 
sages upon baronial precedent, cutting box into 
grotesquerie, using massive note-paper with an 
elaborate heading, and a crest upon every thing, 
from the ferule of his umbrella to the family 
warming-pan. The Man in the Peerage walks or 
rides with an intensity of uprightness painful to 
people who stoop a little; in Church he repeats 
the responsive ejaculations viciously, as impress- 
ing the Scribes and Pharisees with the presence 
of a ruler, and he is nowhere greater, unless it be 
in the poultry-yard, where he disciplines and mod- 
els. His eccentricities are redolent of arrogance 
of the most offensive type, and his maternal par- 
ent even is embarrassed in his company; yet is 
he exalted of men and the scarecrow of many an 
inscript. 

The Man who Writes is another select oddity, 
of intellectual angles and a miscellany of singu- 
lar graces; he has a hobby, and rides it to death 
over the foolscap, nobody caring very much for 
his views, but pronouncing him exceptionally 
clever. They don’t read his books, and let him 
alone, thinking the contagion more harmless than 
if it took the form of oratory. Some of the peo- 
ple who come to dinner take away the loans of 
his. genius, which they return as ‘very fine,” 
without having gone below the title-page. With 
certain folk he is a superior order of being from 
having published something, and young ladies 
who scribble choice extracts in eopy-books place 
him somewhere in a vacant niche between Tup- 
per and Kenealy; but to the generality of peo- 
ple, especially his trades-people, he is an amiable 
evil, necessary in a mixed constituency, without 
whom the grave comedy of life would be in- 
complete. . 

Then we have acquaintance with the Man who 
Paints. He has a studio, and it is appointed for 


all the world like the mere ordinary and vulgar. 


artist’s, but the conceptions dating therefrom are 
of a very different species, unconventional and 


2 


. 


ca 


if 


A MODERN 


wonderful, and boldly characteristic of the gen- 
tleman painter; queer studies, old saints with 
much gold at the back, fandango and procession, 
weird damsels, and grisly ones who may or may 
not be mammas-in-law, swart beauties trifling 
with snakes and other likely playthings, florid 
flowers in dropsical urns supposed to be chased 
with studies from the mythologies, but which 
would do as well for naked St. Giles sporting in a 
coal shed; this is the sort of thing, and the peo- 
ple who want to borrow a little amount call and 
are in raptures before his art, and speak loudly 
of his medizeval idealism, his poetry of expres- 
sion; other people call him a mistake, and think 
he should leave painting to those who paint for 
money and thus paint well. One old lady with 
curls speaks of him, with the door ajar, as Ru- 
bens the Second, but in the kitchen as a little 
cracked, she fears. The Man who Paints is ec- 
centric, and dirty, but very nice, and somewhere, 
if it would ‘but disentangle from its veil of ex- 
travagance, he possesses genuine ability. 

This friend is. nothing to the Man who Plays, 
who possesses the genius of concord, and dis- 
courses sweet anguish upon the instruments, 
grimacing the unities until the select circles he 
favors are seriously indisposed, and from that 
time forth under medical treatment. The legend 
runneth that once, at a Penny Reading, where he 
had been solicited to charm the untutored, he so 
seared the chairman, the committee, the remain- 
ing fellow-beings, and the gas, that the latter 
went out, as also did the assembly, the pence 
mysteriously disappearing in conjunction. It is 
at the evening party the Man who Plays shines 
with true resplendency, and indulges dramatic 
scena with hysterical ecstasy upon the piano, 
until that accommodating board creaks as with 
influenza. The Man who Plays has singular and 
conservative notions anent the composers, and 
considers the institution of notes a monarchic 
privilege. He is held in particular regard and 
affectionately remembered, especially during the 
night, when it is his idea music most soothes. 

- Among other well-to-do eccentrics whose glazed 
inscript honors our card-basket, note the Man who 
Doctors, and seesaws between Anatomy and Sur- 
gery; a charming fellow to sit opposite at dinner ; 
he, what time dissection of the turkey proceeds, 
looking at one suggestively and with a connois- 
seur’s delicacy. He is a rigid scientist and strong 
believer in the good of pain; he would investigate 
the shadowy interior of his own pastor, and take 
a prince to pieces as coolly as a watch-maker 
would a watch; he has a weakness, and it is ver- 
tebree ; he can not hold a book without reversing 
constructiveness, and when back meets back and 
there comes the tug of binding, he is keen at the 
scrutiny of its inner parts; he is a slightly uncom- 
fortable gentleman to shake hands with, giving 
one the impression of forever fingering for the 
small bones, and incisively outlining muscle with 
his finger-nail; he has a craze, and it is cutting 
up; he has been created reviewer and critic of 
flesh and of bone, and examiner-in-chief of the 
human carcass, and he performs his functions to 
perfection; he is pronounced clever but eccen- 
tric; all his friends are afraid of him, and humor 
his fancies from fear of falling into his hands; 
they breathe a higher atmosphere in his house, 
but take care not to be left in the room alone 
with him; his cook shudders over the dresser 


me) iy 
: an ee 


MINISTER. 


when he dashes at a tangent into the kitchen, 
and she once, in a fit of terror, served up the 
leeches in melted butter. 

The Man with a Warehouse follows next, an 
important person in the country. He represents 
Import and Export, shipping interests and com- 
mercial prosperity; he is very wealthy, and will 
dilate upon the process on every available occa- 
sion; he is considerable upon literature of ex- 
change, and bale and factory lore; he thinks he 
is the divinity manufacturers swear by; he is au- 
tocrat, and the great uncontradicted; an army of 
clerks tremble at his nod, and the wholesale is 
his hemisphere. The Man with a Warehouse has 
Ledger imprinted upon the cover of his Bible, and 
is strict as to the business-like piety of his young 
men, who may devote twenty minutes (sharp) to 
dinner, and ten (sharp) to prayer. This latter he 
regards in the light of an appointment, and the 
young man late in is reprimanded with the ex- 
pressiveness used by the great man upon being 
kept waiting in the markets. In his large Man- 
chester hotel he passes all night in feeling the 
warp and weft of his sheets, and in the *dark 
could tell you the manufacturer; he will rise in 
the silent and not too lively hours to consult the 
last night’s papers in the coffee-room upon the 
Indian and American prices. He is a large-heart- 
ed philanthropist, and having a great idea of being 
worshiped, builds chapels by the score, contrib-: 
uting to other erections upon being deferentially 
solicited to lay the foundation stones. He has 
one other noble trait in the composition of his 
colossal character—he is almost matchless at 
“shaving those city fellows,” or, being interpret- 
ed, at out-diamonding those unequalled diamonds. 
The Man with a Warehouse is married ; contrived 
to accommodate an impoverished nobleman, and 
took the daughter as an acknowledgment—he was 
so much in the market at the altar that, in reply 
to the clergyman’s necessary questions, he said he 
would ‘‘take the whole piece.” Afterward they 
saw little of each other; although wealthy, he was 
very much too vulgar for her ladyship to get on 
with, except in the most distant manner. She al- 
ludes to him off-handedly as a good-natured but 
eccentric person, whose proclivities she is too ec- 
centric herself to dare to meddle with; so she 
writes a little, and paints a little, and plays a lit- 
tle, and reads a little, and works a little, and chat- 
ters a little, all in a languid, senseless, vapid sort 
of fashion that makes mercantile eccentricity the 
preferable of the two to those who have the su- 
preme honor of visiting. Their reading is choice 
if not general: his confined to the Manchester, 
Oldham, Rochdale, Salford, Wigan, and Liverpool 
press; hers to the novels, from which she extracts 
highly distilled men, pomaded, perfumed, and pow- 
dered to the most exquisite pitch—these she cher- 
ishes one at a time, and thus leads.a very gratify- 
ing existence. Nothing can exceed the splendor 
of their residence, or the decision with which he 
ejects his doubtful cottage tenants. He is unfor-. 
tunate at being judged hardly; one instance in 
particular is treasured by the vicar and company ; 
it was when, at a funeral, he spoke of the mourn- 
ers as “consignees.” Of course the poor man 
was absent again, but having come into the mon- 
ey, his absence was not recognized by the unchar- 
itable. People who think any thing about hin— 
and really not nearly so many do as he imagines 
—consider him a dry sort of man; but the money, 


147 


148 


if not the charity, covers a multitude of inequali- 
ties, and there can be no doubt about this money, 
for he is at any time willing to go through entries 
and double-entries, day-books and ledgers, in sup- 
port of it. 

The Man with Land is an equally interesting 
study: his habits and customs command the 
most respectful attention, for he is emphatical- 
ly ruler of provinces and governor in Egypt; he 
has what he calls a stake in the country, is an 
extensive acre-holder, has made cent. per cent. of 
plots, and expended no trifling amount in prose- 
cuting gypsies over a nettle tract the nomads pre- 
fer to regard as no man’s; he also is eccentric, 
given to ‘erumbling, and looking on other men’s 
boundaries through blue glasses (he holds a mis- 
take was perpetrated about Genesis time, or when 
chaos came out in leasehold a larger share would 
have been apportioned to himself) ; he takes geo- 
logic ethics like truffles, and somewhere has a 
musty old will wherein he specifies the quality of 
mould he decides for the wlttmum remedium. The 
Man with Land crows over his dust-heap until 
other birds peck at it, and then there is much flut- 
tering. The prime strategy, however, is convert- 
ing it to building purposes, and huge black and 
white boards crop up in view of city men going 
home on summer evenings, until some pioneer 
with a fancy for air and a wide tract thinks one 
of these old fields would be an admirable place 
to build a comfortable dwelling—plenty of room 
for a kitchen-garden, and nice and near the line: 
it may be nice and near a swamp, but seeing there 
are only the wife and youngsters to live in it, that 
is not of much consequence. So a settlement is 
formed, and the Man with Land rubs his hands 
placidly over the post, for another town is set go- 
ing. Anon the rows spring up, men going home 
each evening see more progress, and as this is 
nearer than where they may be bound for, it is 
talked of, and houses let before the roofs are on, 
and foolish people brave all sorts of malady, as 
though this old field were the edge of the world. 
Then a public-house is born, with a church at its 
tail, and the Man with Land is responsible for 
both, some other man‘ creating shops and lesser 
and greater business marts. After a while a sta- 
tion obtrudes its impudent little shed, and the 

Man is one of the first to patronize the company’s 
‘ enterprise, just running down to see how things 
are looking. From frequent repetition of this. 
naive process the Man in the sere and yellow leaf 
is of largely funded interests, much looked up to, 
and generally esteemed. He has one or two odd 
ways, but these are mere harmless eccentricities, 
which of course every one has, somehow or other. 

Quite of a different order is the Man who Buys 
old furniture. He, before this became the fash- 
ionable craze, used to be regarded as very ec- 
centric indeed. He is fastidious as to period; 
neither an Anne nor a Louis pleasing him under 
certain conditions. He is suspicious of deception, 
and sounds Chippendale with the anguish of a 
Rubens-hunt; he knows that new things, from 
pottery to cabinets, are turned out as near the 
ancient as can be, and to obviate the danger of 
being taken in after all, he confines research to 
the old curiosities, as abounding in the weird 
dens where they store such, and from the ransack 
of these in the several big cities he has corridors 
and chambers and halls and staircases of quaint 
construction, gloomy of complexion, diabolical of 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


carving, and altogether ugly. His calm but nerv- 
ous housekeeper, who looks as though she had 
come in in one of the drawers, starts at. every turn, 
and leads a life of martyrdom among the wood. 
The Man who Buys is well known to the brokers, 
and these gentry pounce on a specimen upon the 
vulture principle, attending the likely sales in his 
interests. It is an entirely new sensation, visit- 
ing at one of his overcrowded mansions, and aft- 
erward experiencing something of relief upon 
catching sight of the homely and modern deal 
kitchen table. A few pieces of this sort of ware 
go a long way, but when it comes to weighting 
every floor until they groan, it 7s trying to the 
nerves, as the housekeeper thinks. Altogether, 
this refined taste, like a good many others, pleases 
nobody so much as the owner; and as that is the 
main point, not to put it selfishly, the world wags 
on about the same, perhaps a little more comfort- 
ably, for some of its lumber being cleared. . 

A very charming person is the Man'with a Cel- 
lar, eccentric upon vintages and brands, who pos- 
sesses wines of classical history, from cellars of 
sovereigns, centuries back; he is a connoisseur 
of the most delicate palate, and will define the 
bouquet to the tenth ofa shade. The chances are 
you will be invited to those lower regions, where 
the very spiders partake of the richness of bar- 
rel and bin, and the dust is a tapestry of wonder. 
If you are strong and return alive, it will be a 
journey to remember. His one weakness is this 
cellar, and, unfortunately for the friends who look 
in so often, nothing ever comes out of it; no, the 
nectar upon which they are regaled is bought in 
cheap dozens at the family grocer’s. They are 
none the wiser; the Man has a Cellar, ergo they 
have drunk juice of a most choice grape. 

Of a calmer order of eccentricity is the Man 
who deals in Railways, who has a finger in every 
body’s loop-line, and a junction at his back gar- 
den gates. His drawing-room is playfully stocked 
with models of the chief English and foreign 
lines, and Bradshaw, elaborately bound, lies upon 
the centre-piece of walnut. He divides Society 
into first, second, and third class, and the foot- 
man who ushers in his guests is instructed to 
make them show their ticket. Theory is based 
upon a system of shares, and principle runs 
smoothly upon sleepers. His library is volumi- 
nous upon routes; Murray is held in especial hon- 
or; his files are weighty with the railway organs, 
Herapath’s, the News, and the Times. He is nev- 
er at rest unless rushing off upon some journey 
or other, and the testimony of his family is that 
he is a slightly uncomfortable gentleman to re- 
side with. He gives dinner parties, which to his 
wife he calls netting the directors, and his little 
meetings of solvent share-holders have become 
proverbial for taste. He knows the antecedents 
of all the locomotives, and his little people are 
named after the same. He has a large family, 
which he jocularly attributes to having travelled 
somuch. He calls his dining table a refreshment 
buffet, and buys chiefly of the railway contract- 
ors, in whom alone he believes. His wife’s bou- 
doir, to her horror, comes out before her most 
studied guest as the cloak-room, and their sumpt- 
uous bath-room passes as the lavatory, until the 
good lady, one Sunday coming home from church, 
is so incensed, she tells him she wishes he would 
lie down on one of his railways and be run over, 
when it might be he would have had enough of it, — 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Altogether, as his mania pays and supports po- 
sition, it is here and there tolerated, and they go 
into some good Society, where he is spoken of as 
immensely clever, and, like all clever people, a lit- 
tle eccentric. He hears of it somehow, and takes 
care to invite these people to the first journey 
probably time-tabled for a smash. 

The Man who has a Theatre is always good to 
know. He is generally a fool, but that makes it 
pleasanter, since his beautiful “star,” in whose 
name the commerce part of it flourishes, will smirk 
to you behind his back, and the Peri trip out of 
Paradise to lay his ridicule at your feet. Having 
money, he puts his pieces on very lavishly, and is 
as oblivious to art and the artistic as to refine- 
ment in his galaxy of talent. His stalls are re- 
served for his set, and the ethics of slave-markets 
of the East are set out with anatomical patience. 
The Man with a Theatre always, somehow, under- 
calculates the cost of his enterprise, and termi- 
nates with an act-drop. He is generally friendly 
or otherwise associated with the Man who Breeds 
Horses, who hunts, jockeys, and steeple-chases ; 
who is strong upon all four-legged matters, and 
essentially weak upon his own two; who is redo- 
lent of stable, and tremendous with horseshoe jew- 
elry; who can scarcely speak two words straight, 
and who keeps oaths as the grocers do their French 
plums, in bottles, but large-mouthed and always 
tohand. The Man with Horses is a dreadful per- 
son, but very popular ; he is undoubtedly wealthy, 
although there is always a little hesitation in peo- 
ple’s minds upon his origin ; still, he is pronounced 
a very good fellow. Should the Man with Horses 
make a little mistake, there is always a cliqued 
championship to defend it, as an eccentric piece 
of work, attributable to the excitement attendant 
upon book-making. He is very intimate with the 
Man who Shoots ; they meet at county dinners and 
over coverts, and are altogether much of a much- 
ness, except that the Man who Shoots is more of 
the gentleman, and distinctively of the old school, 
which is a stamp of his eccentricity at once by 
latter-day ethics. The Man who Shoots has fowl- 
ing-pieces on the wall, in kitchen, parlor, and hall, 
keeps shot-flasks and canisters on the mantels, 
alarms the frail-nerved on all sorts of occasions, 
must be forever oiling and rubbing the steel, and 
is haunted by an idea each night that some va- 
grant is prowling—foxes for his poultry, gypsies 
for his peaches, or :burglars for his gold eup— 
and sallies down in the dead of the night, to the 
consternation of the cook seeing that the cherry- 
brandy is all right. Great also in the county, in 
the eyes of political partisans especially, is the 
Man in the Chair; the lofty and august oracle 
who is consulted upon every thing, and is the 
ereat voice in all matters of vital importance. The 
Man in the Chair has a manner peculiar to him- 
self, compound, jerking, effervescent; he is auto- 
cratic, and yet smooth, as smooth as a sucked ju- 
jube on an iceberg. He is to an agreeable extent 
egotistical and insolent, but this only to intimi- 
date the vulgar, who would make capital out of 
his grandeur. The Man in the Chair is not by 
any means to be trifled with. 

‘There is one friend we are always afraid to 
see come in: it is the Man with Nerves. He is 
a shocking one to have dealings with, or even 
the merest passage of social intercourse, for he 
makes you start at his own supernatural noises 
(his backbone creaks like a snuff-box, and his 


149 


joints go off like small guns), and causes a strange 
creeping to ascend and descend one’s entire struct- 
ure; it is said that he is a little out of sorts, but 
the truth is, he is of all sorts, combining the gris- 
ly horrors of all the nervous fictions unmention- 
able at midnight. He is equally troublesome in 
the daylight. He will drop the cream-jug with- 
out compunction ; and every one knows the con- 
fusion thus created, to say nothing of the mess; 
he will stammer and stutter, and at the dance 
trip his partner every time below the chandelier, 
in his fear it is coming down; from this idea he 
suffers as acutely as did the famous Bertrand 
from another; to his dismayed vision screws are 
always wriggling out, and massy construction of 
metal about to descend and brain him; his keen 
eye can detect a crack in the timber before ever 
the timber has begun to weaken, and his subtle 
nose will trace gas in the room long before it has 
left the pipe. He is not nice to enter late with 
at church, as he will stop stock-still in mid-aisle 
and protest he can go no farther, although the 
pew-opener awaits by a comfortably cushioned 
haven just below the pulpit; and he will groove 
into the pew nearest to hand, albeit there is not 
room for another hymn-book. He has a comfort- 
able little property, but is afraid of his game- 
keepers, trembles at thought of the dogs, would 
not intrust his quivering members to the mercy 
of a quadruped, and cautiously avoids proximity 
to his servants. The Man with Nerves suffers 
from eccentricity in its sensitive extreme. He 
may and does visit most of the people of our ac- 
quaintance, but there is one he never visits—it 
is the Man with Daughters, another eccentric, and 
of the audacious type; for the Man with Daugt- 
ters is forever pushing the daughters down the 
throat of the Man who has No Daughters, until 
it is necessary to be on the alert to escape one 
or other of these damsels. They dress well, are 
accomplished, but have been so long prime mov: 
ers in strategy that their veteran air intimidates ; 
not one of nine has yet flown from the paternal 
nest, and each season the Man becomes more 
pushing. He is brusque of tone and business- 
like in manner, as though his stock was depreci- 
ating in value, and people knew it; he feels hard- 
ly used, after his trouble of rearing, and, out of 
pique, would serve the first of his sons-in-law with 
Leah in lieu of Rachel, for keeping them waiting 
so long. He has peculiar ideas—thinks the Man 
with Many Daughters ought to elect his own sons- 
in-law under authority; he ventilates this among 
his cronies until they, even, avoid him, as uncer- 
tain at any moment but the judgment may fall 
on their own unoffending shoulders. 

We had the pleasure of meeting out, some lit- 
tle time since, the Man who Brews, an eccentric 
of Conservative and fermented type, with ambi- 
tion rising far above hopping level; he serves 
the Queen, not in her own jug, but in the bottled- 
ale shape, and in the House. He ts destitute of 
refinement, of breeding, of manners, but is look- 
ed up to, and the great river from his vats flows 
from England to Peru, while his wealth is ex- 
ceeding great also. He is fond of strolling into 
large refreshment places, where unknown ; call- 
ing for a bottle of his ale, he will hold the glass 
up to the light with a knowing twinkle, and wink 
to its sparkle as to a son he might encounter in 
his travels in the act of distinguishing himself. 

The Man who Brews is intimate with the Man 


150 


with Bullion. 
sympathies are identical, their hard-driving prin- 
ciples and crisp, curt manners are the same. The 
Man with Bullion traffics on ’change, is properly 
impressed by the greatness of his avocation, feels 
a pang every time he sees the sacred name of 
Bank on the omnibuses, looks cautiously at a 
half-penny to make positively certain it 7s a half- 
penny before giving it away, stands upon the 
hearth-rug jingling loose coins in his pocket 
while studying the money market, and times the 
arrival of all vessels with specie. . Invited out, he 
thinks of but one thing—consols; he rates vir- 
tue by its cash-account, and will have literally 
nothing to do with the modest-incomed ; his man- 
ners are dry and hard, he is without feeling; 
were it possible to mint his flesh and blood into 
currency, flesh and blood should go.. The Man 
with Bullion is commanding, for he knows Mam- 
mon is the god of this world, and that he is his 
prime minister. The metallic flavor attaching to 
him is, in his opinion, a note of credit; he has 
flying loans out in Europe, and thinks even mon- 
archs and princes would very often know short 
commons if it were not for the most useful of all 
their subjects, the Man with Bullion. 

Far below, but curiously connected in an indi- 
rect manner with the preceding, is the Man who 
Speculates, and who, as a natural consequence, 
overtops creation one day, and is swearing at his 
wife in the lowermost depth of the valley the 
next. The Man who Speculates would not gam- 
ble for the world, nor join a lottery; nothing so 
uncertain. In all his delicate transactions he 
stands to win, and he wins to stand, for if he loses, 
he falls; but even then it is no fault of his im- 
maculate speculativeness, but an imperfectly bal- 
anced and wrongly constituted order of things; 
and by some inscrutable reasoning the meek lit- 
tle woman at home, in the drawing-room she 
knows may be stripped before noon, is at the 
bottom of it. The Man who Speculates buys 
public stocks and lands, and if the expected ad- 
vance foreshortens, he is barbarous enough and 
eccentric enough to think it has been brought 
purposely about, as though Providence would in- 
terfere with stock-broking. 

First. cousin to this man is the Man who Con- 
tracts: he is more practical, more genuine, but 
infinitely less agreeable, looking up and down 
one, and estimating lowest contract price for run- 
ning one up like us; he would contract with his 
own hens for eggs in return for grain and grub, 
and agree with a housewife at so much a year 
for the feathers working out through the bed- 
ticking; he will build’ you a church, he says, 
seventy-five per cent. lower than the Man who 
Builds, and as the Man who Builds is one of the 
old-fashioned, slow-raising ones, the Man who 
Contracts robs him of the job. Time is his 
great point—he will do the thing to time, where 
other men, or men’s men, seem to have a singu- 
larly inaccurate dealing with that valuable pos- 
session. It is not in his working, which is 
doubtless admirable, that the Man displays his 
eccentricity, but in his private relations, where, 
not proving things going according to a system 
of contract, he storms and blusters in the face of 
time and every thing else. 

Very instructive to watch in operation is the 
Man of Auctions, for whom room is made while 
he pushes up to the rostrum, check-book in 


Their villas lie contiguous, their | hand, extraordinary bargains in his eye. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


This 
Man seems born for one great end and purpose 
—to carry off the surplus furniture of public 
sales. The Man of Auctions is a gentleman; he 
is wealthy ; he has a hankering after curious and 
antique works; he collects old china; dabbles in 
pictures ; has some treasures according to Moses, 
but very few by the valuation of Smith, who has 
something to do with Burlington House; he is 
partial to old cameos, bronzes, and other hard- 
ware; and behind his dingy mansion he has stored 
a variety of odd things, including a foot-warmer, 
said to have belonged to Julius Cesar, and the 
shutter of the original ark. 

In sober earnest, one has not to go very far in 
search of the eccentric, be it in high life, low life, 
or that middle stratum of which the true-born 
Englishman is so fond. The eccentric, the pe- 
culiar, the odd, the queer, the irregular, the un- 
conventional, the anomalous, the singular, the 
particular, the strange, the whimsical, the droll, 
the fantastical, the grotesque, and the out-of-the- 
common altogether, may be met with at any hour; 
and with exercise of patience and tolerance, a 
vastly suggestive study itis. . 

Seldom is opportunity afforded of studying as 
unique a quartette of eccentrics as were assem- 
bled, one evening toward the end of October, 
in the private parlor of the “Seven Tuns,” an 
old-fashioned and highly respectable hostelry in 
Bishopsgate. The firm of Barnarp, Ror, & Com- 
PANY, Merchants, Brokers, Commission Agents, 
Legal Advisers, Loan Discounters, Money-chan- 
gers, Bill Negotiators, Freehold, Copyhold, and 
Leasehold Proprietors, Assurance Promoters, 
Share and Deposit Holders, and Scamps in gen- 
eral, had met for business; and an audacious and 
thoroughly villainous firm it was, but as eccentric 
as villainous. 

First, there was the chief of the bureau, with 
his tall form and saturnine visage, with that trap- 
pish click of the teeth, and livid features, and the 
cold gray pitiless eyes.. He was in the chair, 
leaning elbows on table, resting high cheek-bones 
on his clinched hands, and looking over these 
with lynx-like minuteness at his partners. On 
his right was seated Mr. Bartholomew Rolf, one 
of the most astonishing beings, so far as appear- 
ances went, who had ever patronized the ‘Seven 
Tuns.” Tall as his chief, but older, he possessed 
the power of imparting a gravity to his counte- 
nance which comes of age, if not of wisdom; yet 
his head, and the general cast and contour, were 
of more gross and cunning type, and it was pretty 
evident, from outer signs alone, this man would 
not hesitate to perform much that his superior 
might decline. Mr. Rolf was bald-headed, merely 
a scanty circle of iron gray hair round the back; 
his features were florid, sharply prominent, and 
presented a voracious and wolfish expression. 
Mr. Bartholomew had been nurtured upon bubble 
companies and fed on forty years’ frauds, and yet 
was extant, to meet his friends with the serious 
enjoyment and grave decorum of a board director 
in the hoar and honored years. Upon the left, 
Mr. Stephen Miles, the colorless gentleman, with 
the unearthly roll of the eyes—the valued treas- 
urer and specie authority of the firm—whom, al- 
though so extremely indistinct of shading, the 
chief would on no account have lost from their 
respected number.- Mr. Stephen’s services were 
of an especially particular sort, and such as, even 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


by adding to their limited liability company, might 
not have been secured again. ‘Thus this esteem- 
ed confrére would on emergency forge like an ex- 
pert, and could, if required, go the great length 
of discovering a fire at an opportune situation. 
None of this able band was remarkable for vir- 
tues, but without a doubt Stephen Miles was the 
most awful rogue of them all. The remaining 
member has yet to make acquaintance with the 
Reader—to whom the Author’s apology for the 
disreputable introduction. This was Coke O’Con- 
nor, Attorney at Law, retained by the firm upon 
a policy pre-eminently allied with human cautious- 
ness, and, to render all strictly secure, admitted 
one of the firm. When Mr. Noel Barnard, influ- 
enced by motives of prudence, looked about him 
for a clever, shrewd, and conscientiously unprin- 
cipled lawyer, he came upon Coke O’Connor, 
probably the greatest rascal practicing, and of 
whom he immediately thought highly, since he 
(O’Connor) had in a certain matter emphatically 
worsted the renowned Noel. The latter was not 
dilatory in any matter, and came to terms with 
the rascal at once, the process of which was char- 
acteristic and instructive. 

“JT want a man,” said Barnard, “like yourself, 
to do some dirty work; only it won’t do to be 
fastidious.” 

“What do you stop at? What are the terms ? 
And for how long ?” 

“We draw the line at bodily injury; terms, 
third of a half; time, unlimited; joining, dona 
Jide.” 

“Good! I’m your man!” 

“Legal counsel we want; men we can get by 
the gross, for our profits are large.” 

“You but qualify the dignity, Sir. 
date will my services be acceptable ?” 

“Instantly. I know every thing on earth, ex- 
cept the law, and that was always so unsavory, I 
couldn’t tackle it; but now I am determined to 
conquer the law, or, in my ignorance, the law may 
conquer me. The only defense an honest man 
has in this land is to master the law. What say 
you, O'Connor? Eh?” 

“Your sentiments do you honor, Sir,” said 
O’Connor, much impressed by the supernatural 
twirl the tactician gave to one of his serpentine 
limbs, and thinking that if he had ever wished 
for the Evil One as a client, he must catch at this 
opportunity. 

“Then sit down, will you? And we'll get to 
work!” 

They sat down at the stained desk in a dull 
room of the dingy house where, as a bedimmed 
plate outside warned the public of London, Mr. 
O’Connor, Attorney, abode. They sat down, and 
studied hard for hours, the lawyer cramming that 
long head beside him until it seemed lengthened 
by several inches; went over probabilities, and 
went into possibilities ; cut away round loop-holes, 
and hunted up risk, with its correlative of escape; 
bared all the elasticity, and uncompromisingly laid 
a veto on the iron and exacting. Any other brain 
would have collapsed: Mr. Barnard’s increased its 
range, its clearness, its appreciation, and its in- 
sight, the farther they went and the longer they 
kept at it. A spare youth, of much grime and 
many ink stains, was dispatched for slight refresh- 
ment, which the two devoured without rising from 
the desk, and pursuing the abstruse study all the 
time. Straight through all the quips of law, like 


At what 


” 


151 


another Cépola, whose “ Devices” Coke O’Connor 
had the pleasure of introducing to his indefatiga- 
ble pupil, did the Mentor cicerone his future part- 
ner; and, after a day of it, Mr. Barnard rose Mas- 
ter of the Constitution. 

Mr. Coke O’Connor, like the three gentlemen 
with whom he was associated, happened to be a 
tall, gaunt man, with limbs that he never seemed 
to know how to use, and which presented the ap- 
pearance of having been fixed to the trunk in a 
hurry, and to have been selected at random from 
a heap: certain it is they were all odd, and always 
upon the fidget... Mr. Coke O’Connor’s head seem- 
ed to have been elongated in a press. His clerk, 
the young gentleman afore-named, once stated 
that his employer had been hung up by the eye- 
lids when a youth, a method of accounting for 
the telescopic phenomenon upon picturesque prin- 
ciples. The attorney’s hair was very black, and 
he wore a sharply finished imperial; his eyebrows 
were peculiar, meeting at an angle in the centre, 
under which his eyes shone hard and bright as a 
pair of new shoe-buttons. 

He was seated, as was seemly, vis-d-vzs with the 
head of the firm. Mr. O’Connor’s value had been 
fully tried and tested: Mr. O’Connor’s advice had 
more than once proved preventive in cases where 
it might not have been as convenient of curing: 
Mr. O’Connor had fully substantiated his claim to 
the disregard of the fastidious: Mr. O’Connor had 
developed from a nobody, a mere obscure attor- 
ney, into a person of importance, to whom those 
in doubt or in difficulty resorted, to their profit, 
and to the profit of the firm in the background. 
Thus, representing the Law—for which the firm 
entertained profound respect—Coke O’Connor 
worthily occupied the vice-chair. 

The firm had been assembled some few min- 
utes; desultory talk opened proceedings; then 
the lithe white hand of the leader started up like 
a spectral finger-post, and— 

“To business !”” 

The solemn calling to order produced a dead 
silence, midst of which the awful orbs of Stephen 
Miles performed a solo after the style of the re- 
volving organs of those colored minstrels special- 
ly noted for practicing the feat. ~ 

““ Reports !” 

From the president. O'Connor took from his 
breast pocket some papers tied round with pink 
tape. He turned these down rapidly, selecting 
those required, and keeping the others beside him 
for reference. Then he cleared his throat, all his 
limbs working as though pulled with a string, 

“‘ CHEFFINGER !” said Mr. O’Connor. 

“Hem!” From the president, serpentine below 
table, which Mr. Miles seemed to trace through 
the wood. 

“Sir Claude Marston Cheffinger—Cheffinger 
Abbey—five hundred pounds: as many thousand 
when we’ve locked up his cousin Dickson in a 
mad-house.”’ : 

The three long heads nodded, the eyes in the 
colorless head betokened intensity of relish. The 
legal member of the firm proceeded : 

‘“Travers! Mother and child traced to Hert- 
fordshire: George Percival, then at home, proved 
a friend—mother and child staid at farm until 
she accepted situation as companion to a family 
in town. Child at farm now.” 

“Name of family ?” 

From the chief, over his tightened fists: calm- 


152 
ly, yet with low-breathing interest, eyes like two 
sparks of fire. 

“Sir Horace Vivian, Belgrave Square; young 
ladies about to visit Lady Vivian, who is staying 
at Nice for her health.” 

The chief looked significantly at Bartholomew 
Rolf; the look was understood; then he said, 

“We undertake to provide for Dickson Chef- 
finger!” and again his myrmidon apprehended 
the meaning. 

“This Percival family seem bent on giving us 
trouble; Mr. Miles will see to this?” 

That worthy bowed, and looked down on his 
finger-nails, one of which, greenish-yellow from a 
bruise, seemed to exercise a fascinating effect. 
The chief kept microscopic watch upon each 
member of the company. 

“ Proceed !” 

“Vincent! Son in London, studying at South 
Kensington: has received written information 
from Sleperton of a private visit to the Manor 
by Lord Lindon ; with directions to—” 

But the attitude of the chief stayed conclusion 
of the sentence. 

“One moment—the motive of Lord Lindon’s 
visit ?” 

“To ascertain for himself if correct that the 
mansion was being renovated prior to the return 
of Lady Lindon.” 

“And Mrs. Vincent knew of his lordship’s 
visit ?” 

“They had an interview in the Manor-house at 
night.” 

“The widow's cue ?” 

“‘ Making him additionally jealous and incensed, 
through—the Minister !” 

“Clever woman, most consummate artist. Go 
on.” 

“Gorpon! Now at country studio of Lord 
Frank Ellerby, the aristocratic painter.” 

“Good!” The president might have been of 
German extraction, so guttural was that satis- 
faction. 

“With him a girl known as Lena St. Aubyn ; 
quitted her home during absence of guardian ; 
they are often together; his lordship has done 


?em on canvas; very fond of both; the boy and 


girl contemplate some day going forth together 
on search for something ; don’t furnish what.” 

Click, click, went the president’s teeth, tighter 
clinched the fists; there was no other sign of 
emotion and marvelous surprise, not to say awe, 
at the strange nature of that revelation, which 
perhaps no one could have apprehended w rith the 
same sensations. Then he spoke: 

‘“‘T will attend to this myself; and she three 
heads nodded in deference. 

“Sr, Ausyn! Of Yorkshire; employing three 
Private Inquiry and Seotland Yard detective of- 
ficers for the recovery of said Lena St. Aubyn, his 
adopted daughter: a reward, on the quiet, of one 
thousand pounds.” 

“Good!” Guttural and iinans again; the 
two serpentine limbs below the table described a 
circle as embracing something. 

“BeecH! Bird-catcher; now in Brighton ; 
been seen to enter the house of Westley Gar- 
land, Preacher.” 

“Confusion!” muttered the chief, knitting his 
brows; more Mephistopheles than ever. . 

“ Attended a week- night service conducted by 
the said preacher—” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“The fool !” breathed Noel, in a low and deep 
under-tone, and with expressive contempt. 

“Ts at honest work,” continued the legal ad- 
viser, with imperturbable gravity; ‘‘cab-driver, 
No. 17 5; cab-rank, Old Steine; lodging, 13 Ed- 
ward Street.” 

“ Bartholomew, you will oblige ?”” The chief 
bowed gravely to Bartholomew ; Bartholomew 
could not have looked more venerably serious 
had he been the chief’s father. 

“Cappie! Investment. Secured a thousand: 
also title-deeds to building property: effected 
through our branch office in the South.” 

President Barnard smiled diabolically. Treas- 
urer Miles notched the table with thumb-nail as 
indicating dot and carry one. The president mo- 
tioned the speaker to proceed. 

““Gartanp! House called Moated Grange,’ 
Hawkingdean ; under-ground passage from cel- 
lar, communicates with broken arch at foot of the 
garden, whereby the cavaliers of Charles’s day 
might conceal or escape: now disused, passage 
closed up by means of locked doors; had the 
pleasure of securing the old key.” 

Saying which, the lawyer placed upon the table 
a huge rusty key, of a kind sometimes seen in the 
doors of ancient churches, 

This closed the reading of the reports, and 
the industrious advocate refolded the papers with 
care, and tucked them, with other pleasant mem- 
oranda, under the tape. 

Then the president rose to speak. He address- 
ed the meeting with affable suavity, yet with that 
nameless superiority which arises of high-class 
education, travel, and mixing much with people 
in the higher walks, 

“We are again indebted, gentlemen, to the es- 
timable and faithful service of our trusty coad- 
jutor ; allow me to pass a few remarks upon our 
recent successes and future policy.” 

The president bowed, and, sitting down, as- 
sumed a profoundly ministerjal air. There was a 
dead silence, the homage unmatriculated villainy 
pays to villainy that has matriculated; it was in- 
terrupted by Bartholomew rubbing his bald head 
as far as the fringe; it might have merely been 
the florid richness of complexion, but Bartholo- 
mew looked warm. 

“T will put this in as few words as possible, 
our time being very valuable. To begin where 
our friend left off; a subject just now of most 
importance, since there is no doubt this Minister 
will, if he can contrive it, be quits with us yet; 
he has gained one advantage, although not one 
of important service to himself, in securing the 
deed upon which I sought to obtain the Cheffin- 
ger signature. Now, gentlemen, to glance back 
a moment! After the Eagle Hall disaster we 
accomplished so cleverly, Lionel Travers, ruined, 
shame-stricken, melancholy, despairing, and half 
maddened, fled from the scene, courting death 
before world-wide blazoned-forth dishonor; as 
though” (added the speaker, bitterly) “ that 
would avert it, or satisfy one determined upon 
their drinking the cup of humiliation to the dregs, 
and very dregs ! He was rescued from death by 
drowning, and by a servant of Lord Guilmere’s, 
who had the body conveyed, at the desire of his 
lordship, to their house ; he was then tended by 
her ladyship, with the devotion a woman might 
display to her own son, and was lying there some 
days. Upon recovering,-the repugnance to re- 


- thousands; and so much the better for us. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


turning to old scenes, the supposition Beresford 
Travers would, believing with the rest of the 
world that he was dead, provide for his wife and 
child, and the scheme—as I understand it now 
—of clearing himself with all men and with his 
family, of honestly satisfying all demands, and 
restoring his wife to her old position, induced 
him to conceal his recovery and whereabouts 
both from her and others ; and he seems to have 
entertained and to have successfully carried out 
a project at once clever and daring. Although, 
following upon his old inclinations, there is nothing 
so very remarkable about it, after all. Through 
the interest of Lady Guilmere, to whom it is just 
possible he disclosed all, this Brighton living was 
procured for him by the late Earl of Heronby, 
her ladyship’s father; and from an insignificant 
proprietary chapel his genius has raised this to 
the front rank of popular ehurches, and himself 
to the foremost of modern ministers. I am care- 
ful to dwell upon this, because it is so much the 
better for us. We have allowed this brilliant 
phoenix, hatched by reed and sedge at sunset, to 
acquire his full growth and fuller plumage, that 
we may pluck him a second time, and with yet 
greater pleasure. Depend upon it, friends, this 
idol of the crowd and alchemist, who has discov- 
ered the true secret of gold-coining, has but one 
purpose at heart, and that I have explained to 
you. For that he is amassing his hundreds and 
We 
will step in ere very long and undertake the care 
of this tithe and levy and tax imposed upon cred- 
ulous Christians. Gentlemen, it is our duty to 
stand by the Christians—as the Christians have 
so often stood by us. Why should we see an 
estimable body of people robbed of their hard- 
earned savings? What arewe? Are we vulgar 
schemers, coarse conspirators, dabblers in. chi- 
eanery, and blunderers in fraud? No, gentle- 
men, but merchants and bankers, carrying on a 
system of operation based upon legitimate busi- 
ness, and with that ancient and honored system 
of laying hands upon all we can, which establish- 
ed your ancestors and my ancestors, and which 
establishes their descendants.”’ 

“Hear! hear!” from: Mr. O’Connor, plucking 
tenderly at his imperial, while the awful eyes of 
Stephen Miles rolled from its point to the bald 
head of Mr. Bartholomew, and from there to the 
long thin face of Nero, where it dwelt approving- 
ly while he proceeded. 

“We will not go into a question of antece- 
dents; you know we are gentlemen, and incapable 
of the low extremes to which uncultivated men 
venture in pursuit of gain, of position, of self- 
aggrandizement. I know you to be educated, 
men of wealth, family, and position, but you have 
distributed that wealth for the benefit of the 
world in general, you have quarreled with the 
family accounting such quarrel profit, and have 
kicked position out of the balance, leaving that 
to lesser mortals. Gentlemen, you have a grudge 
against Society, Society has a grudge against you; 
Society is proverbially sneakish, and if you don’t 
take care of yourself Society will prey upon you 
—it is ever the fate of the innocent and unsus- 
pecting; gentlemen, I commend your foresight. 
I have been to the wall myself (although half- 
brother to a baronet), and a very rough wall it is! 
You are aware my war with Society dates from 


a very early period, when my father, Sir Kinnaird 


153 


Dalton, Baronet, conveniently played fast and 
loose with Hagar, the beautiful daughter of Jael- 
Ishmael, reader of stars and king over gypsies, 
whom he met at Epsom plying the calling of their 
people, and lied to under name of one Barnard. 
Thus, gentlemen, having in my veins the old but 
contemptible blood of Dalton to counteract the 
venerated royalty there engrafted, you quite un- 
derstand how simple a thing it would be for me 
to perform an undignified and despicable action, 
and how morally and virtuously impossible it is 
for that action ever to be performed by myself.” 

The chief looked round with the pride and im- 
portance of a plenipotentiary ; the meeting was 
used to the strategy of the chief, and the meet- 
ing bowed back respectfully. 

“Therefore, gentlemen, it would be an obvious 
impracticability to permit these Christians to be 
aggrieved and oppressed by this designing per- 
son, who is presuming upon a faith as ancient 
and honored as my royal grandparent’s. In the 
interests of humanity we foreclose—the correct 
word, Coke ?—and preclude further havoc in the 
sheep-fold. I have been giving this painful sub- 
ject deep reflection. Iam disposed to be merci- 
ful, for we are all sinners; and although, when a 
Minister gives way to greed, it is the most sorrow- 
ful of all spectacles, yet we can not tell but that, 
if we were exposed to similar temptations, we 
might do even likewise; thus I am placed awk- 
wardly, the whole body of humanity upon one 
side, and this fallen nature, like a second Lucifer, 
gentlemen, upon the other! I will not admit 
sentiment to our conference—I have already de- 
cided without it—yet with all mercy, and, gentle- 
men, without overstraining that amiable quality. 
Our Minister shall hand over the whole of his ill- 
gotten gain to our better keeping, reserving only 
sufficient to carry him as missionary to those 
blacks who will eat him and his books after. one 
of their triumphs of seasons!” 

Which sally excited appreciative derision, Mr. 
Miles, being an admirer of authorcraft, especially 
enjoying the finale of their chief immensely. It 
was Mr. Coke O’Connor who ventured with, 

“But how is it to be done, Sir? This Minister 
is an awkward customer to tackle.” 

“Our friend has spoken well,” said the chief, 
with sententious brevity; “permit me to reply 
to the question raised. A Minister is public 
property, his coat is for every fool to pick holes 
in; we who are wise may slit and rend it from 
top to bottom. Each tea table in Brighton is 
busy at discussion of his merits and demerits, 
two-thirds at endeavoring to glean something de- 
rogatory to his character and reputation, the re- 
maining third at inventing what the other two 
are seeking for. We shall not find it arduous 
assisting one or the other; the Minister, particu- 
larly the popular Minister, being pre-eminently 
a target for scandal. I'll tell you something: 
when Lionel Travers was at Torquay he rendered 
a service to one Evelyn,.a poor curate, who pos- 
sessed a beautiful daughter, whom Travers, all in 
a friendly sort of way, played Abelard to. Friend 
Stephen, I mark a naughty twinkle in thine eye, 
and I am sorry—not, Sir, that all the Beresfords 
and Traverses are immaculate. My old pupil— 
perhaps thanks to my moral training-—was al- 
ways a model; but, gentlemen, Miss Constance 
Evelyn often visited the Hall, was friendly with 
With Lionel’s wife and with Lionel. Of course 


154 


the friendship continues, and— In short, gentle- 
men, I shouldn’t be surprised if Brighton were to 
discover a very pretty scandal—very pretty in- 
deed! And if any one here assembled can de- 
clare a more henious act than for a Minister, 
courted, looked up to, a leader of public opinion, 
possessed of unequalled genius, foremost in the 
Church, relied upon by all good and Christian 
folk, not one of whom would decline leaving the 
most loved and jealously guarded of daughters 
in his care—if one here assembled can declare a 
more iniquitous deed than for such a one to mis- 
lead the daughter of his curate, let him declare 
it, or forever hold his peace!” 

With a look of mock horror and shocked and 
outraged indignation, the chief awaited any such 
declaration, the attorney murmuring, ‘“ Horrible— 
horrible indeed !” 

“Thanks, gentlemen,” said the president, bow- 
ing with native elegance, “for the confidence you 
repose in me. Well, our Minister shall totter 
upon his stand, and it doesn’t take much to over- 
turn a popular favorite, you know, especially in 
the Church. He shall be blackened, and whitened, 
and reddened with a vengeance. We have only 
to lower that unbecoming pride, and make his 
reputation a thing for every ignoramus to have 
a fling at; when we will threaten, if he does not 
hand over the wealth obtained under a false name 
—mark you, under a false name—to expose him 
and disclose all. And if he shunned the public 
humiliation then, what will he do now, eh, gen- 
tlemen ?”’ 

“Good!” grunted Mr. O’Connor, with profes- 
sional relish, for he considered his chief had made 
a point. 

‘‘And we will permit—we will permit the al- 
ternative of his quietly leaving the country—after 
transferring his passable little treasury to our- 
self. Very well; now supposing, being a. high- 
spirited one, he kicks? Then, my friends, I will 
hold his child in reserve. Bartholomew will take 
a trip down to Hertfordshire and bring her to 
town, and here keep her until wanted. He loves 
his child, would have her with him, but could not 
as he is situated at present; and to the best of 
our belief, he is ignorant of the child’s hiding- 
place. He’ll go quick enough for her.” 

There was silence, only broken by Rolf mum- 
bling to himself, “‘ Child—Beech—V ivian—Chef- 
finger.” He felt his hands full, and did not want 
to forget any thing. The amphibious-looking 
Stephen took out his lizard-green pocket-hand- 
kerchief and wiped the palms of his hands. Mr. 
Coke O’Connor pursed up his lips and said nothing, 
but stared hard, and perhaps thought the more. 

“Have I made it plain, gentlemen, this Min- 
ister is to run to the end of his tether and no 
farther ?” 

“It is irrevocable as fate.” 
with lachrymose effect. 

“Very well; then we will drop this, and turn 
to other matters. Friday Street accounts, if you 
please, Mr. Rolf.” 


aan EREEIEEENS< ane 


Thus Mr. Miles, 


CHAPTER XLII. 
GABRIELLE BECOMES CRITIC. 
Towarp the end of October, London was just 


beginning to put on that cheery look which be- 
tokens the fireside season, Crimson curtains dis- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


placed the muslin, and framed interiors, lighted 
up and inviting, tantalized the lonely bachelors 
journeying home from City work to comfortless 
rooms, wifeless, childless, fireless; pleasing, how- 
ever, to those going home to such delights, caus- 
ing wearied lips to wreathe with smiles while 
thinking of the rosy faces circled round the fire 
that would be all joy and gladness with the wel- 
coming. From his seat upon the omnibus, George 
Percival saw into many such a home at this 
drawing-in period of the year, saw what he ad- 
mired with so exquisite a refinement—the com- 
fortable fireside, the homely room, the children 
gathered about the tea table. They were soon 
past, the pictures fled like views of a phantasma- 
goria, and London looked more gray and grim for 
the contrast. He grew to know the houses where 
these pictures gleamed, to know the members of 
the circles, to look for passing these each even- 
ing: it lessened distance, lightened the way. 
They looked so happy, the woman with a boy 
standing arm about her neck, the man with a girl 
at his knee, a proud smile sunning the face that 
had all day been care-worn and harassed—so 
happy, it made the extreme gentility and cold 
decorum of Queen Street almost repelling. Peo- 
ple did not have children in Queen Street, nor did 
they believe in any similar institution involving 
noise or merriment. Of course there were sons 
and daughters, but they were all grown up, and 
so far as Queen Street was concerned, always had 
been grown up. Catch a little one disturbing the 
neat arrangement of those geometric gardens! 
All the highly burnished knockers up and down 
the street would have risen and fallen with out- 
raged protest. No hoops came trundling along 
its quiet pavement—the very iron lids over the 
coal cellars would have started up and opposed 
it. So decided, indeed, was the prejudice, the 
street might have been given over to a colony of 
decorous spinsters and bachelors. George did 
not like it, and sometimes would wander for re- 
lief round the infinitely less genteel streets. It 
was so real a pleasure to him to see the children, 
in their homes or in the streets; no matter if wild 
and untidy as drawing-rooms go; he loved them 
with the genuine feeling which requires no first 
decking forth with bows and tuckers. And ¢om- 
ing home as described night after night, his 
thought was ever with that project of his—Why 
should they not have one such in that great ten- 
roomed house of theirs? It would do the ecar- 
pets good, cheer the whole place, enliven that 
dull street. ‘‘ Never do, George,” said inner self. 
“Tt is not as though you were in a house of your 
own; and Aunt Percival is a curious body to in- 
troduce any thing of the sort to! And dear Ga- 
brielle ?” Well, Gabrielle would give that placid, 
calm assent of hers, just to please himself; but 
he would ever feel restraint, knowing the thought- 
ful eyes were upon every movement, the ears 
pained by every word addressed endearingly to 
another, although but a child.. “The fact is,” 
said George to himself, “a man is placed in a 
very equivocal position, situated as I am. I do 
not want to hurt Gabrielle’s feelings, for she is a 
dear, good girl, and I should be sorry to run coun- 
ter to my estimable uncle and aunt; but I cer- 
tainly wish I either had some little friend who 
could run in of an evening and make the place 
human, or else that I knew some fellow who 
would ask me to spend the evening sometimes 


i 
' 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


with his family; but all the men I know are 
either unmarried or haven’t any family. I de- 
clare I feel sometimes as though I could make 
friends with a bricklayer, and drink tea out of an 
old brown tea-pot, for the sake of feeling a little 
sociable and informal, rough and ready with his 
little ones !” 

It was all very nice going home regularly to a 
tick of the clock, being let in by Gabrielle, with 
undeviating punctuality and with a smile that, 
meet smile or no, was always there to receive 
him, fair as some angel greeting; all very nice 
finding slippers and dressing-gown ready placed 
with his easy-chair to a turn of the scroll on the 
carpet; very nice to have Gabrielle bring her 
quiet work every evening and sit silent while he 
wrote, yet so often looking up at the face bent 
over the writing; so nice, and uniform, and un- 
eventful, so still and tranquil, with its unroman- 
tic routine, he slightly wearied of it, and rather 
longed for change, yet would have asked no 
change but the one he would most have wel- 
comed, the introduction of that most perfect an- 
tidote to the uniform—childhood! Besides, it is 
a slightly embarrassing feeling to be ever in the 
company of so divine a character as was that of 
Gabrielle, consciously far from her equal in point 
of merit, of sincerity, of emotional affection ; 
feeling to be placed in a false position, and to be 
altogether at a disadvantage, since expected ev- 
ery evening to declare a profession of love than 
which nothing was farther from immediate in- 
tention; a peculiarly embarrassing feeling to 
know one is looked upon as a son-in-law without 
experiencing that innate delight which is natural 
under the circumstances. George Percival prob- 
ably loved Gabrielle as much as he had ever 
loved any one in his life, perhaps more; yet the 
very fact of always having been her companion 
(which caused the love Gabrielle experienced for 
himself to be so fine a sentiment, so firm a pas- 
sion, so deep, so true), was of itself sufficient to 
counteract the germ of love which thrives best 
upon novelty. 

He went home one evening—one of those Oc- 
tober evenings—feeling chill and depressed, as 
the finer natures are very apt to feel when near- 
ing that trying month, November. 

Gabrielle received him as usual, took his hat 
and coat and umbrella, and then, throwing open 
the door of his room, disclosed a bright fire, his 
chair wheeled from the window tc its side, table 
and draught-board just by, a book he was read- 
ing, the evening paper, and his slippers leaning 
against the fender before the fire. 

“Well, this is something like!’ Rubbing his 
hands, reviving on the instant, and of course 
marching over to the hearth-rug and taking up 
his position back to the fire. 

“JT fancied you felt a little dull, desis last 
evening ; the fire is cheering !” 

“Yes, very cheering!’ He was thinking of 
those interiors: then conscience smote him; he 
went up to her, and taking her hands, looked 
gratefully into the clear eyes: “And my Gabri- 
elle is a good, kind, thoughtful one, considerate 
as ever!” 

She was so pleased by even that admission: a 
pleasant praise it was to her, even as though 


Heaven-sent, and co compensate her for long 


waiting. 
“Uncle and cee gone out ?” 


155 


“Yes, they have gone to the Poppets to tea 
and supper; so, Mr. George, we’ve a long even- 
ing before us, if you are disposed to talk, or read 
me some more of the manuscript.” 

And after he had partaken of his usual tea- 
dinner, and they were seated by the fire, George 
leaning back in the easy-chair, toes close to the 
bars, and looking so very unlike reading, Gabri- 
elle felt quite a little flutter as she thought, ‘‘ He 
is going to talk!” After settling thus, and evi- 
dently, from the intent look at the burning coals, 
with something upon his mind, there were a few 
minutes’ pause, Gabrielle at her calm and me- 
thodical plain work for some poor pensioner, yet 
inwardly agitated and thrilled by expectancy, and 
thinking, “* There is nothing like a fire for inspir- 
ing a man with remembrance of the domestic!” A 
pause that was broken by a sigh from the re- 
cesses of the easy-chair; and from over the work 
it was answered by a little faint apology for an- 
other—quite faint and indistinct, as scarce ven- 
turing to lift its bold fac-simile, the fair echoist 
thinking, “ Surely sighs prelude confession!” And 
after that the man in the chair sighed back, loud- 
er than hers yet lower than his first, and fidgeted, 
drew the chair closer to the fire, and consequently 
closer to her upon the opposite side, so that she 
thought, while sewing the gusset deftly, “JZ am 
sure drawing up a chair denotes something out of 
the ordinary!” And she ventured to peep up at 
him. He didn’t look overpleasant, but no mat- 
ter, it was like the maiden speech; and every 
body knows the anxiety that is to a man. 

She was full of tolerance, not in the least im- 
patient. She had been waiting since sixteen, 
and knew it would come some time or other. 
“ These authors,” she thought, “ are not like other 
mortals, but when they love, they love!’ Then 
suddenly she was all vivid attention, for he 
knocked over the fire-irons, and that would cer- 
tainly awaken him to the existence of the audi- 
ence, if any thing would. Yes, he was about to 
speak; and trembling a little with soft, delicious 

-emotion, which she could barely credit—remem- 
bering it was past thirty by the time of life—she 
heard, “I’ve a little something I have been wait- 
ing the opportunity of telling you, Gabrielle, 
which may as well be told now; indeed, I shall 
seek to enlist your sympathy, ay, ‘and I hope, win 
your co-operation,” 

She nodded kindly, looking very interested, but 
in her heart thinking it a queer commencement, 
and, with the rapidity of thought one exercises 
at such times, running the gauntlet of connect- 
ive probabilities. It was something he had been 
waiting the opportunity of telling her; that look- 
ed in’ her favor, very much in her favor. But 
then the seeking to enlist her sympathy—was 
that usual? Well, of course, her sympathy 
would be enlisted; it was only one of George’s 
figurative modes of speech. But that ‘ co-oper- 
ation” —detestable word that. Gabrielle did not 
half like it; she waited, however, and the lover- 
cousin spoke again. 

“T met with a little adventure, dear Gabriella 
when at home, this year, upon my holiday, which 
I have never told you of. I was impressively en- 
treated not to speak of it if I could any way avoid 
doing so, and I entertained such reluctance to 
thus “making it a matter of conversation, I have 
avoided doing so.’ 

“Yes, dear !” 


156 


It was said with perfect quietness, but there 
was the feeling he might at least have told her. 
There was mention of that holiday, since when 
he had never been quite the same to her, and it 
turned her cold; there seemed, after all, some lit- 
tle mistake about this talk. 

“You remember our favorite walk along that 
tributary of the Lea, which flows at the foot of 
the old Priory grounds ?” 

“Yes, dear!” 

It was very trying having it thus recalled; she 
remembered but too well; for when boy and girl 
they had chased dragon-flies upon the banks of 
the streamlet, and plaited rushes while sitting 
upon the grass, he telling her tales, composed 
with due regard to the dramatic, dear to child- 
hood. The allusion to the Priory itself, the 
quaint, picturesque old ruin, beneath the shade 
of which so many long drowsy afternoons had 
fled, was well-nigh sufficient to fill her eyes with 
tears. However, it was ‘‘ Yes, dear!” It was al- 
ways “ Yes, dear!” with gentle Gabrielle. 

“You are not to expect any thing romantic, 
you know; merely the relating of an opportune 
service it was placed in my power to perform.” 

What a long time it seemed coming; she could 
have jumped up and caught the words, they seem- 
ed so slow in rising to the lips. How quiet it 
was without! Not a sound, for half Queen Street 
went to bed at seven o’clock, and the other half 
crept along the pavement and in at the richly 
grained doors, silent as mice. 

“It was near by the bridge you used to be so 
fond of standing upon. Perhaps, because of this, 
I was tempted to lean over and look down into 
the water.” 

How pleased she felt at that! ‘ Dear old fel- 
low!” she said to herself, looking up wistfully ; 
it takes so much to satisfy one. 

“Tt was late in the evening; I think almost 
near to starlight: that hushed season we used to 
love so well.” : 

It was awfully tantalizing! Was he trying to 
enlist her sympathy by reviving old slumbering 
joys, or was there no second thought at all ? 

“T had not been feeling very well all day—I 
think—no, I am sure, I had not! Hence my 
taking that quiet and unfrequented walk at that 
hour.” 

She did not very much want to hear all this 
preliminary, and wished he would come to it at 
once, whatever it was. If there was one thing 
Gabrielle disliked more than another, it was. beat- 
ing about the bush. Cousin George poked the 
fire. 

“T remember it was a most beautiful evening ; 
I can almost hear those grasshoppers now.” 

She gave a little tug at the calico; nay, the 
veriest pull, as testing the texture. 

“And I walked thoughtfully on to that 
bridge.” 

Gabrielle thought this a suspension - bridge. 
She rose and walked thoughtfully to the door, to 
ie the cat in. It jumped upon George’s knee, and 

egan to purr fondly; it was so much in Gabri- 
elle’s confidence it could scarcely do otherwise. 
What a peaceful scene it was! how like to man 
and wife, and cat, especially the latter, if the 
proverbial instability be correct! 

“‘__When I heard a ery, a child’s ery of alarm, 
then a scream for help! I dashed to the spot 
from whence it proceedel, and found a girl 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


struggling in the water. I at once brought her 
out of the unpleasant, if not dangerous, predica- 
ment, and, bending over her, asked how she came 
there. By the light still lingering I saw the lit- 
tle face lifted to my own, one of the most win- 
ning and lovable I had ever seen.” 

Gabrielle’s hands were lying perfectly motion- 
less upon the work, She was not surprised, or 
absorbingly interested, or foolishly jealous, but 
she was impressed by the coincidence of the 
striking resemblance to her dream. 

“She told me that, as she was stooping to cup 
some water in the joined hollows of her hands, 
the soft bank gave way, and she fell headlong 
into the water. She said she was more frightened 
than hurt, and I am sure was as much hurt as 
she was frightened; but more than either was 
her eagerness to get away from me. My curi- 


osity was aroused, for she seemed no ordinary . 


child; although the garments were such as the 
poor cottage children wear, there was a refine- 
ment and prettiness about the speech equal in 
every respect to such as might characterize a 
child of the upper classes. The loneliness of her 
situation quite moved me, and I begged she would 
explain it. There was manifest reluctance; but, 
after a little, bursting into tears, she told me that 
herself and mother had been walking all day; 
her mother was very weak, and had taken no 
food, and had been seized with faintness within 
the Priory. I could not leave them thus; the 
child’s position seemed too desolate, and I re- 
marked an exquisite tenderness in her manner of 
speaking of her mother.” 

“ No,” said Gabrielle, looking thoughtfully into 
the fire, “it would not have been right to leave 
them in so lonely a situation.” 

“‘T took the child’s hand, and said I would ac- 
company her to the ruins; but she firmly de- 
clined my so doing. No, her mother would re- 
cover soon, and they would continue their way. 
I told her I lived close by, and might be of serv- 
ice; I offered to go for any restoratives the lady 
might require; I placed our home at her dispos- 
al, if she would permit me to escort her to it, and 
my sympathy impressed the child. With a beauti- 
ful movement, she gave me her hand and con- 
ducted me to her mother. I found the lady suf- 
fering from complete prostration, and I believe 
she had but recently passed through some severe 
mental ordeal.” 

‘Poor thing!’ murmured Gabrielle. 

“The light was too dim in the shadowy old 
place to detect the lady’s appearance; but the 
voice that thanked me, of inexpressible sweet- 
ness, denoted one of gentle breeding, and I felt 
deeply interested in the fate of these unfortu- 
nates, who might, for all I knew, have been over- 
whelmed by some sad disaster. I offered my 
friendly aid in any way, and begged their accept- 
ance of such homely hospitality as the farm af- 
forded.” 

“You are always nobly generous.” 

George smiled gravely in acknowledgment of 
this kind compliment, and continued his narra- 
tion. 

“You will be much surprised when I tell you 
that the unfortunate lady I was happily enabled 
to succor was the widow of poor Mr. Lionel, and, 
having met with sad reverses, was hoping to ob- 
tain some engagement as companion in a select 
household, but first had dragged herself hither 


a 


} 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


for one glance at the old home, not ‘seen for 
twelve years; perhaps with the half hope of see- 
ing her guardian, from whom, as you know, she 
was severed by her marriage.” 

“Yes; how strange a circumstance! [ little 
thought you were going to tell me this! [I re- 
member both herself and Mr. Lionel well; so af- 
fable with every one, they were much beloved.” 

“By all the tenantry. With shrinking deli- 
cacy, she explained how averse she was to ac- 
cepting my offer, yet how thankful she would 
feel for some such shelter for a time. I pressed 
it upon her, entreating that she would not hesi- 
tate to accept so slight a service, which would 
be opportune; for she was overcome by trouble, 
fasting, and fatigue, and totally unfitted to be out- 
of-doors. For her little girl’s sake, I begged she 
would pause no longer, and I reminded her how 
often Mr. Travers had befriended ourselves, and 
especially had used his interest and influence in 
procuring me the situation I at present hold.” 

“Yes; and she allowed you to see her to the 
farm ?” 

“She told me first how broken were her for- 
tunes, how inadequate her power to return the 
kindness offered; upon which I would not hear 
a word, but tendered her my arm, begging she 
would lean upon me while I supported her to 
our house. She did so; and when we arrived 
there, my dear mother, with her accustomed ge- 
nial hospitality and tender thoughtfulness, at 
once bestirred herself to see to the invalid’s com- 
fort, putting her to bed there and then, and mak- 
ing her those tempting and nourishing dishes 
which seem native to a farm-house, but which 
dear mother improves upon with a nicety all her 
own. And now tell me, oh, fairest of fair, judges ! 
Did I well ?” 

Thus abruptly and flatteringly denominated 
critic, Gabrielle did not pause in her reply: 

“Most certainly you did; I should have done 
the same.” 

“Thanks, dear; I am sure you would.” 

“J had no idea you were so well occupied all 
the time. I dreamed you were idling away the 
hours in those delicious meadows, or in the gar- 
den with your book, indolent as the honey-laden 
bees.” 

Spite of the pleasant words, there was a vein 
of sadness, and he looked at the face narrowly 
while asking, 

“And my Gabrielle is not the least little bit 
jealous ?” 

“Not the least little bit!’—the face with the 
honest eyes meeting his, and the lips pressed 
firm below. | ee. 

- “The lady in whom we were so interested re- 
mained at our house a fortnight, winning our 
sincere respect—so gentle, so thankful for every 
little service, it was a real pleasure having her 
about us—and she picked up wonderfully, seem- 
ing to regain strength by our very kindness. And 
how shall I describe her child to you? The coun- 
terpart of her beautiful mother, with a passionate 
love, an exquisite tenderness, in all her relations 
with that idolized parent. Mrs. Travers and my- 
self had many quiet conversations together about 
her little one, and she told me of traits so del- 
icate, my love for children has increased tenfold.” 
“Tam sorry for it.” 
_ He looked up surprised, and she explained. 
- “Tam afraid you will one day become too fond 


157 


of these little friends of yours, dear George! Be- 
lieve me, I but speak in your own interest. It is 
so easy to centre the full love of a heart upon 
some object, especially if it appears to return 
that love; but it is another matter possessing the 
power of withdrawing the love at will. I mean 
in the event of that return love changing; and 
childhood is fickle, veering with the. wind, and 
loving most where gaining most, and often only 
so long as that gain continues,” 

“Tt is seldom my gentle cousin expresses her- 
self so warmly.” 

“Tt is because I hope never to see your happi- 
ness dependent upon any thing so uncertain, and 
because, knowing you better than any living per- 
son knows you, I am aware how soon one of these 
would twine about your heart, and how soon that 
heart would feel the slightest change—a change 
certain to ensue. Do you think me bold? How 
often have I talked in confidence, and never once 
but with the highest regard for your welfare !” 

““T know it, Gabrielle. You may be sure I 
would not have taken you into confidence now 
unless I were well assured of your pure unself- 
ishness. I admit it would give me sincere pleas- 
ure to have Mrs. Travers’s little girl here with 
us, for, as you have probably surmised, she is 
now an inmate of my mother’s home; hence my 
disinclination to advise the going thither of your 
young friend. I was unwilling to increase the 
pressure upon their kindness, since it is to oblige 
myself they have her there, and I was also un- 
willing the children should be thrown together.” 

Gabrielle was about to say that, had he but 
told her in the beginning, she could have made 
this right; but she remembered she had not told 
him of that one little matter relative to ‘“ Wal- 
ter’s” disguise; so she said instead, 

“You have yet to tell me of Mrs. Travers, and 
how she came to allow her little girl to stay.” 

“Tt was a sore struggle. The poor lady was 
resolved upon obtaining some situation whereby 
to earn money; her intention was to take lodg- 
ings for her child somewhere near, so that she 
might see her occasionally—as often as practica- 
ble; but when I represented the peril to the 
child involved in the arrangement, as there. cer- 
tainly would have been, and submitted the ad- 
vantages derivable from a quiet country home 
and pure country air, she admitted the justice of 
the plea, and saw with me it was more in the in- 
terest of her child’s health to allow her to re- 
main, even if deprived of the joy of so frequent- 
ly seeing her.” 

“Yes,” said Gabrielle, thoughtfully, looking in 
the fire that snapped and crackled, as if enjoy- 
ing some excellent, albeit vexing, life-problem. 

“And I offered to make this my business, if 
she would permit me, and to be at entire cost— 
not a very large one—of the maintenance of her 
little girl, at my own home or elsewhere, both 
myself and herself to see the child as often as 
convenient.” 

Gabrielle drew a deep breath. 

“ And this kind offer was of. course accepted ” 

“Yes, very gratefully; without any nonsense, 
and upon the understanding that any expenditure 
thus involved should be returned to me so soon 
as Mrs. Travers was in a position to do so.” 

“Well, it is a novel responsibility for you— 
one long wished for. I hope it may give you ev- 
ery pleasure |” 


158 


She did wish it, for his happiness was dearer 
to her than her own. 

He smiled in a dissatisfied manner. 

“Tt is but a half possession. The child is too 
fond of her mother to spare a grain of fondness 
for any one else; and were Mrs. Travers to be- 
come wealthy, her little girl would be removed 
from my care without compunction—” 

“Of course, and very properly; and just as 
you were beginning to love the child; remember 
my warning. It is one of those pitfalls good peo- 
ple make for themselves.” 

What a flush the flaring blaze in the grate lent 
to the usually faint-hued cheeks ! 

“Hence I am acting very prudently, and as 
foreseeing all you would represent, in not going 
home, as I might do, say each Saturday after- 
noon.” 

“But how about the prudence, when wishing 
for the danger to enter this very house ?” 

“True, Gabrielle; a mere passing thought; a 
scarcely defined dream of what might be.” 

“ But what is the utility of a realized ‘might 
be’ if destined inevitably to lead up to sharp and 
certain pain? Better live on the ‘might be’ for- 
ever and forever.” 

She was very serious now, and George Percival 
knew himself confronted by a woman awake to 
hard and bitter truth, to the hardest and most 
bitter truth a woman learns, when discovering 
all a life’s hopes are futile, all a love’s life is 
dead. She did not exhibit her distress, nor con- 
vey by a single moan all the bitterness. She 
simply realized it and accepted it. 

“George dear’—he looked up, he had never 
in all his life heard her speak to him so softly— 
“JT am so glad you have told me of all this; I 
may be able to help you. Believe me, I will do 
my best to teach her how to love you.” 


pe ee 


CHAPTER XLIV. 
A QUIET CHAT. 


Ir was said with a sweetness that never varied, 
and a firmness leaving no second thought of its 
truth. And he was quite taken aback, being un- 
prepared for this generous and unselfish interest. 

There would, then, be something indeed to hur- 
ry home from the City for, and without envious 
glancing into those red-curtained rooms he passed 
upon the transit. His room should become ex- 
quisite by the light lent by that one small sunny 
face. And Queen Street—barren avenue—should 
blossom as the rose. For the first time in his 
life it would be a place of charms, so great was 
the transformation to be effected. 

With Gabrielle for helper, what might not be 
done! 

George had never particularly loved the street 
the worthy book-seller had retired to; its quiet- 
ness was oppressive, for to him the Prophet Zech- 
ariah’s description was dear: “And the streets of 
the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in 
the streets thereof.’ George Percival was an em- 
inently domestic and home-loving person ; his 
evenings were spent at home, and it was his world. 
There had seemed to be something wanting, but 
he had hitherto been contented with those hazy 
idyllic dreamings which now appeared nearer the 
form and semblance of reality than ever before. 


A MODERN MINISTER. / 


Involuntarily his thought wandered in the direc- 
tion of one of his clerks, a wholly inadequate 
creature to whom the manager had been very 
kind, for the simple reason (a sufficient one with 
George Percival) that he had a child dependent 
upon “him ; and “I will try and. have Andrew Wil- 
son’s salary raised for this,” he said to himself. 
In such odd manner does the gratitude of a heart 
find vent ! 

It was a painful satisfaction Gabrielle experi- 
enced upon that evening; her cousin looked so 
much happier, and she sadly thought, “ Why had 
J not the power to brighten his life and kindle 
those beautiful smiles?” And then with a sec- 
ond thought came the consciousness that she had 
done so, and she was contented. 

She turned the channel of their thought by 
handing him a book her father had that morning 
brought in. Mr. Percival, senior, making a point 
of obtaining through his old publishing friends 
the notable books of the day. 

“What is this? The Zriwnph of Seasons, by 
the Rev. Westley Garland. I have read reviews 
upon it; opinion seems varied.” 

“There need be no second opinion upon its 
merit,” said Gabrielle, with the generosity of a 
true woman. 

“T will read it. Iam an admirer of several 
of his works; and I have often thought if there 
was one man more than another I should like to 
know, it is Westley Garland.” 

“Well, it is useless wishing any vain wish of 
the kind. JI-expect Mr. Garland is one of those 
stars whose beams reach us from the highest 
distance.” 

“T should place this work,” said George, mi- 
nutely looking through the volume, “among the 
author’s poetical productions. Some prose works 
are ust to be nee by the canons which govern 
prose.” 

“ Like your own books, which are more distinct- 
ively poetic.” 

“Tam no poet, nor do I wish to be; it signifies 
to suffer. My nature is susceptible enough with- 
out the higher-strung discipline. When I have 
felt myself drifting thitherward, I have rather 
checked the course, thinking it unfits me for the 
world of facts and figures; when I give myself to 
this, it will be after quitting the arena of matter- 
of-fact. Even this hobby about little Ella par- 
takes too much of the poetic, and, judging by all 
my past experience, I shall be called to account 
in some rough form. I always find something to 
dispel illusions: and I never yet yielded to an af- 
fection for a particular child but it was taken 
from me.’ é 

* “Not a very encouraging retrospect, just enter- 
ing upon your experiment; be careful. Ido not, 
however, see why to enjoy the poetic should rep- 
resent ‘to suffer.” 

“Plant an eolian harp upon a hill in gusty 
March, and note the effect upon that sensitive in- 
strument. Truly the poet thinks, studies, writes 
for the future, and lives for others rather than 
himself. If conscientious, he is the most unself- 
ish worker in the world. Prosperity may come 
or go, it has no bearing upon his work. The bias ~ 
of opinion in no degree affects the execution of _ 
that upon which he expends his soul. He may ~ 
be unrecognized, unknown for years, and then his _ 
audience may be the scantiest ever grouped to | 
hear a singer; but he will sing on, in the dark, it _ 


ine, 


“ty. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


may be, but very sweetly, and with the earnest 
faith and simple affection which soul-work ever 
imparts to the steadfast in heart,” 

She had ceased to work, and was looking upon 
his face, listening eagerly. 

“The soul of the man or woman constituted 
poetically is, by the fineness of organization, pe- 
culiarly susceptible to mental enthusiasm, and all 
the emotional influences thrilling the heart with 
ecstasy; it is, as it were, stretched to greatest ten- 
sion upon bars of music, rendering it dangerously 
sensitive to impressions which may at any mo- 
ment shake fragile beings like reeds.” 

“ Beauty, for instance ?” 

“There are times when beauty itself becomes 
a snare, and idealism a decoy to evil. With the 
laudable desire to win good opinions on one side, 
and to maintain an independent judgment on the 
other, it is no easy matter to avoid becoming rath- 
er the idealist of the flesh than of the spirit. Yet, 
as we know, in our own day this has been accom- 
plished by more than one poet; by aid of their 
faith, in virtue of a devotion that never wavers— 
the faith, say, a severe reverence for the antique, 
the devotion, an’intense love of the Greek ; a be- 
lief persistently followed all through, a creed 
strengthened by years, the wider their sympathy 
with the classical.” 

“You treat the classical with becoming honor.” 

“Tt is the mother. of culture.” 

“ And you would go into raptures, I suppose, 
before one of the marbles of Athens ?” 

“Not at all. I prefer some pretty child of to- 
day, in whom I discover more perfection of beau- 

It is rather her learning I allude to.” 

“And taste.” 
“ Yes, and taste; in comparison with which the 
quintessence of Modernism is dissatisfying.” 

“ And you hold those poets to be the most per- 
fect who approach nearest to the spirit of the 
Greek ?” 

“The most perfect upon purely finished style 
and august elegance, not upon those grounds af- 
fecting our common humanity. One of these 
poets is no use to me for lifting my trouble-laden 
soul, or pointing out the direction where comfort 
is to be found. I shall gather more from some 
few sentences of some writer intensely human— 
say, for instance, our friend Mr. Garland here— 
than from a whole epic of the Attic school. But 
I shall there learn a sublimity of thought which 
will confer innate nobility, by reason that it is the 
very highest form of scholarship.” He paused, 
but she did not reply, and he-proceeded with the 
argument. ‘These poets recognize no bridge be- 


_ tween the Present and the Attic; the periods are 


identical. If departure occurs in particular cases, 
under stress of illustration, it is to be in the com- 
pany of at once the most perfect and the most 
beautiful of the masters of thought. The secret 
of their finished power is sympathy, as it is the 
secret of every true poet; in this case, sympathy 
with the classical. Sympathy appears to me the 
essence of sublimity, both in music and poetry. 
The measure of poetry is its depth—depth of emo- 
tion, not meaning; when it beats with a heart, 
breathes with a life, throbs with the tenderness of 
a soul: this is the emotional depth of poetry: by 
this, with this, for this, it lives and loves and suf- 
fers; pines through long waste of years; droops, 
sun-scorched and wind-blown, hidden in the val- 


4 ley; waits hopefully the issue of a hundred days 


159 


of doubt, ofttimes faints low even to the border- 
land, but never dies; for its vitality is established 
upon the basis which gives vitality to the soul, 
and the soul becomes poetry, and poetry becomes 
soul, and the soul can not die.” 

Yes, she understood all this, and the gleaming 
light upon her face was its witness ; she thought 
the words might almost have proceeded from her 
own lips. 

“The abstract,” he continued, “should have no 
abiding-place in poetry; it is an utterance in no 
case submitting to strained effect. For is it not 
the language of music which suffers by contrac- 
tion, the melody sinking to broken shreds of un- 
lovely sound, intense, yet void of sympathy? It 
exalts as god the Intellect, and the heart may but 
kiss its skirts, banished to the utter confines of 
the circle where Mind preaches in the midst. Yet 
even as there is more of prose in this day of work 
than of poem-feeling, or tenderness of instinct, so 
many find comfort in the letter who fail to find 
the love. Some are so ground down by care and 
voiced to common tones of daily life, the poet’s 
message is one of discordance in place of sweet- 
ness, and the exquisiteness of high metrical emo- 
tion is a trouble, and is apprehensively shunned. 
To such the light of the lofty purpose is lost, and 
the inner mission is negative. They count his 
days spent in folly, and good strength wasted 
upon shadows. But the man sings on, not re- 
garding the heedless. What bird stays the wild 
woodland trill because there are few or none to 
listen? It can not help but sing: and little it 
knows of wanderers pausing by reason of the 
spell of its song, which lifts the heart upward, 
cheers the step ‘forward, reveals glimpses of a 
bright beyond, and sends them on their way stron- 
ger and with a braver courage. I do assure you 
often, when terribly low, I have revived under 
some such influence; and when ground down ut- 
terly, as it seemed, and altogether oppressed by 
the routine of City work, some fragment of this 
higher language has lifted my soul from dead and 
colorless grooves.” 

“Tam sure of it. Sometimes I have wondered 
how it is you can keep at it day by day with the 
punctuality and regularity of mere mechanical 
clerkship.” 

‘““Why do hundreds, who feel as I do, and who 
abhor the grinding blankness of the life? It is 
for the money earned, the position gained; it is 
because respectability requires a man to possess 
some tangible proof representing some certain 
source of income, and because a man without it 
is but three removes from a vagabond—by the 
focus of respectability. What do you think I 
should be worth in the estimation of genteel folk, 
supposing I lost my position at the bank? Very 
little, I trow.” 

“Well, we won’t’talk about that.” 

“ No, we won’t talk about that, although I have 
sometimes felt that if a sixteenth of my present 
salary was derivable from literature it would be 
ten times as sweet.” 

And yet your position is an honorable and an 
honored one, and you have worked hard to make 
it so. Listen! There is the postman. He is 
coming here.” 

The maid entered with a black- edged note for 
George, which he read aloud, as follows: 


“‘ My pEAR Frrenp,—I have been unable to write 


160 


you before, owing, I am sorry to say, to the bustle 
of preparation for leaving home. Immediately 
upon my arrival, I discovered it was as an occa- 
sional travelling companion my services would be 
required. Ido not feel justified in resigning the 
position I hold, since every member of the family 
treats me with extreme kindness and considera- 
tion. It is, nevertheless, a grief to me (thus be- 
ing compelled to quit England) on account of my 
dear little one; but I have at least the consola- 
tion of knowing she could not be in kinder hands ; 
and as I would commend her to the thoughtful 
protection of a father, I leave her in your charge, 
praying God may bless and reward you for all 
your kind sympathy and care. This is merely a 
visit of a week or two by the Misses Vivian to 
their mamma, now resident in Nice; thus I am 
hoping my absence may be of very short dura- 
tion. Meanwhile, believe me, with very grateful 
recollections, your friend, Evia TRAVERS.” 


een 


CHAPTER XLV. 
IN THE BANK PARLOR. 


Anprew Wutsoy, the clerk of whom mention 
has been made, knew perfectly well how much he 
was indebted to the manager, and daily trembled 
lest the errors he made by the score should be 
discovered by somebody else. Of a truth, the 
discrepancies and inaccuracies of his factotum 
took up a considerable portion of Mr. Percival’s 
time. Not wishing it to be known that he con- 
nived at so inadequate a system of service, he 
used to go carefully through Wilson’s work after 
the gentlemen of the bank had left the establish- 
ment. The manager knew to a certainty that his 
clerk would never obtain another similar posi- 
tion; hence his patience. And he was marvel- 
ously tolerant with the poor old scribe. 

He was sitting late one evening, in the bank 
parlor, checking Andrew Wilson’s figures, when 
Mr. Stephen Miles stealthily returned, in company 
with Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., one of the direct- 
ors. This gentleman had once published a book, 
which had been a distinguished failure; he there- 
fore entertained unmitigated contempt for this 
mere salaried manager, who dared to bring out 
successful books under the very nose of himself, 
autocrat of the London and Olympian, Stephen 
Miles, with unerring scent, detecting a hitch some- 
where, improved upon it, and by crafty and sub- 
tle device fanned the fire of the director’s jealous 
annoyance. And Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., lent 
but too ready an ear to the poison-whispering, 
and bided his time. Stephen Miles, who aspired 
to the managership, lost no opportunity, when 
alone with his superior, of disparaging Percival 
and his attainments. He was (not that it was 
any business of his) abstracted at the work, evi- 
dently engaging in his duties mechanically, and 
not with due regard to the interests of the firm. 
‘‘ A man can not serve two masters,” said Ste- 
phen, devoutly, as implying that the master Mr. 
Percival served was decidedly not Mammon. He 
was sorry to allude to such a thing in Mr. Grip- 
per’s presence, for Percival had a mother (the 
lizard-green pocket-handkerchief here came into 


play), but he feared—and he had observed him. 


very closely—he feared Mr. Percival was not the 
conscientious and high-principled young man the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


directors supposed. It grieved him more than 
words could convey to express this opinion of a 
superior, but integrity was every thing with him, 
and he would not be true to his integrity if he 
kept it back any longer. He had passed many 
sleepless nights thinking this over since secing 
some little things he did not quite like in Mr. 
Percival’s transaction of the bank business, and 
it was long before he could make up his mind to 
draw attention to this, knowing the confidence 
reposed in the manager, and aware that such, 
coming from a subordinate, bore appearance of 
being dictated selfishly; but he deemed it his 
duty, his bounden: duty, as a faithful servant, to 
direct Mr, Gripper’s notice to this “something” 
which was making him so uncomfortable; and 
he had done so. 

And the director gave this faithful servant his 
hard hand gratefully, with, 

“You have done the bank good service, Mr. 
Miles; we will see into this.” 

Thus encouraged, the faithful servant explain- 
ed more particularly the nature of his doubts. 
He did not know, mind, but terribly feared all 
the accounts passing through Mr. Percival’s hands 
were not quite accurate. He was in the habit of 
sitting at the books long after clerks and cash- 
iers had left the premises—that looked bad. He 
(Mr. Miles) entertained strong distaste for the 
mysterious and underhanded. In business every 
thing must be open and above-board to please 
him, or he would have none of it: If Mr. Perci- 
val found the pressure of the work too heavy for 
transacting within the reasonable hours appor- 
tioned to business, there was no objection to his ° 
working later, but at least he might have one of 
the juniors to assist him. It was the stealthi- 
ness—he was sorry to use the word, but couldn’t 
think of another—that he did not like; he did 
so hold with actions being open to the inspection 
of all the world. 

Mr. Gripper quite believed in Mr. Miles, but 
felt astonishingly discommoded when the awful 
roll of the eyes came into operation; and being 
himself a keen man of business, with particular 
regard to honesty of purpose, he quite commend- 
ed the sentiments of this valued adviser; and 
when Mr. Miles proposed that he should take the 
manager unawares one afternoon, and see what 
he really was up to, Mr. Gripper thought it his 
bounden duty to the London and Olympian to do 
so. And they did so. They came in quietly by 
means of a private key, and stood in the passage 
outside the first door of those doubling the en- 
trance to the bank parlor. Mr. Miles was to keep 
in the background; he begged his name should 
not be brought into question, and the other agreed. 
Mr. Gripper entered softly, and confronted the 
manager before he had time to blot the balance 
of an account he was examining; but this did 
not confuse the industrious accountant ; far from 
it. He rose and bowed respectfully, waiting. He 
supposed this call to have reference to one of 
the bank customers. 

‘“‘ At work late, Mr. Percival ?” seal the mem- 
ber of the firm, taking a seat, and folding the tails 
of his long coat over each knee, as though to 
keep them * warm, 

“There is always something needs attention, 
Sir, after closing. I prefer every thing straight 
before locking up.” 


“Thank you; very right.” He rose, standing d 


not noticed this before. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


over the book, glancing down like a hawk, his 
thumb on the page heavy as a government seal, 
and asked, “‘ Any thing wrong with this account ?” 
reckoning the whole thing in a flash, and observ- 
ing it correct. 

“ Nothing, Sir. I have rectified an error I de- 
tected, dated the 26th.” 

Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., drew a chair up to 
the table, and pulled the book over to him, re- 
marking, “‘ Money is down again, I see by the even- 
ing paper.” 

“Indeed, Sir.’ The manager did not take par- 


AVA DURANUSpOUnCANtOCG 


161 


where figures had been substituted. for others, 
He covered the page above and below the alter- 
ation with blotting-paper, remarking carelessly 
upon the neatness with which the accounts were 
kept, then politely requested Mr. Percival would 
look at that pagea moment. Were those his fig- 
ures? To which George unhesitatingly answered, 
“Yes,” so close was the forgery. 

“ Have you found occasion for many alterations 
in the books, Sir ?” ‘ 

“J have invariably done so where I have detect- 
ed clerical errors on the part of the clerks.” 


“WHAT'S THIS? SOMETHING ERASED HERE.” 


ticular interest in the fluctuation so long as his 
department displayed prosperity. 

“What's this? Something erased here; cler- 
ical error presumably.” 

The manager looked. It was strange he had 
It was not of his scratch- 
ing out, and he had gone over the page only three 
evenings previously, signing it correct. His sig- 
nature was there just below it. He could not un- 
derstand it, and said so. 

Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., held his head up very 


high, looked down the sharpness of his nose, 


turned over a page or two, and detected a place 


“Thank you; I am satisfied as to the punc- 
tilious cireumspection exercised. If you will al- 
low me, I will-take this book home, and balance 
two or three of the accounts. I will explain to 
my partners in the morning.” 

“ Certainly, Sir, if you wish it.” He tied the 
book up in brown paper, and offered to leave 
it at Mr. Gripper’s house in the course of the 
evening. 

“T will take it myself; I am obliged to you. 
Trying evening this for any one queer about the 
chest.” 

He was buttoning the ends of his muffler in- 


162 


side his thick brown coat, Mrs. Rehoboam Grip- 
per being monstrously particular with this inval- 
uable member of Society. As Mrs. Gripper ob- 
served to her eldest daughter, Miss Cornelia 
Gripper, ‘“‘ Your papa is not only a private gen- 
tleman, my love, he is also a banker; and for 
the sake of those intrusting their little all to his 
keeping, we should take the utmost precaution 
lest he catches cold.” And they did so. 

The Gripper household was conducted upon 
model principles of precaution. Mrs. Gripper 
was the daughter of a civil engineer, and the pre- 
cautionary organs of the skilled constructor were 
fully developed in this careful lady. Mr. Grip- 
per’s precautionary measures took a different 
form, being closely allied with the preservation 
of treasure. Miss Gripper took upon herself the 
management of the establishment, and it was a 
continuous struggle with that estimable lady lest 
one or other of the servants transgressed waste- 
fully. Miss Miranda Gripper, on the contrary 
(Miss Miranda was the second daughter), confined 
her cautiousness to foreign departments, such as 
the trades-people, with whom they dealt; ‘‘a de- 
signing set,” Miss Miranda said, ‘“‘who would get 
the better of you if they could ;” she likewise dis- 
played wariness with their friends and acquaint- 
ances at whose houses they visited, expressing 
habitual distrust regarding their genuineness and 
sincerity, and sometimes their solvency. Miss 
Lydia, the third daughter, displayed vigilance in 
respect to the opposite sex, fencing and hedging 
herself in from some ever-impending attack, al- 
though the necessity was not imminent. Taken 
in its entirety, the household to which the but- 
toned-up and muffled banker proceeded, and con- 
veyed the brown paper parcel under his arm, was 
an eminently precautionary one. 

After Mr. Gripper had gone, the manager, al- 
though untroubled because he knew the accounts 
to be balanced accurately, sat rather perplexed, 
musing over that particular alteration Mr. Grip- 
per had pointed out, and which he could not re- 
member at the time of his attestation. When 

could he have altered the particular figures there 
standing? And why should Mr. Gripper so care- 
fully cover the page when asking him respecting 
themy? Mr. Percival sat ruminating, hoping all 
was right, and but little disturbed by the occur- 
rence. He experienced great sympathy for An- 
drew Wilson, who had seen better days. True, 
Mr. Percival knew, but did not acquaint others 
with his knowledge, that the old gentleman, who 
was a skilled performer upon the violin, had 
served in the orchestra of a theatre; but this 
was preferable to many of the shifts the needy 
resort to, George thought, and should certainly 
not debar him from obtaining some higher form 
of employment. The day the musician came be- 
fore the manager in this same parlor, he told 
that kind-hearted humanitarian the story of his 
past, and it was a story of superior fortunes and 
of education, as well as of sorrow and wrong, and 
Percival gave him his hand, with the promise to 
do his best to assist him. And he kept his prom- 
ise. He believed the clerk, if he once got into 
the way required, would prove more valuable 
than some of the younger men with considerable 
jewelry and large assurance. And rather than 
the meek and grateful fellow should be igno- 
miniously discharged, he would continue rectify- 


ing his mistakes, questionable though the policy | 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


might be. But he could not somehow remember 
Wilson having made a mistake at the particular 
line Mr, Gripper had pointed out, and he was 
puzzled; not in the least troubled, but decidedly 
puzzled. Amidst his ruminating there came a 
tap at the door, a gentle tap that only small 
hands make, and, with a pleased smile, the gen- 
tleman bade the intruder enter. It was merely 
the daughter of the bank housekeeper, but she 
came in with an evident purpose. Mr. Percival 
had been kind to the child, and even as he won 
love of all such, the little girl remembered him, 
when absent, more fondly than he suspected. 
But now she came in to say this to him, and it 
set him thinking: 

“T thought, perhaps, you did not know, Sir, 
that Mr. Miles came in with Mr. Gripper; they 
came in very softly and stood whispering in the 
passage. I was on the stairs.” 

“Thank you, my child, it is all right; no doubt 
Mr. Miles returned for something he had for- 
gotten.” 

“He has often been back before, Sir; just 
asked if you were here, and gone away again.’ 

“Oh, Miles is a good fellow enough. “T have 
no doubt there was some cause for his return.” 

He had broken bread with the man; it was 
not easy for George Percival to entertain dis- 
trust; he was not of the order of those who dis- 
trust all with whom they break bread. 

‘“‘ Mother doesn’t believe in Mr: Miles,” replied 
the child, with simplicity, not stopping to think 
that it was really no business of her mother’s, 
Intent upon speaking her thoughts trutuafully, 
she had honestly expressed her opinion in the 
earnestness of her interest. 

And when she had gone, and George had lock- 
ed up, and turned into the chilly street, he felt a 
dim mysterious presentiment not to be accounted 
for, not to be reasoned away, which, visiting some, 
produces discomfort and depression. 

“Now,” said George to himself, “I ought not 
to be feeling like this; I suppose it’s the weath- 
er.” That poor weather, how it is saddled with 
grievances all the year round! And as, when he 
felt one of his low moods creeping upon him, he 
always thought enviously of those with a family 
to take it off, so now his mind pictured little 
Ella watching his mother knitting beside the 
huge fire-place in the parlor at the farm, pictured 
his father with the evening pipe and the county 


paper, often laying aside his glasses to look at 


the fairy picture beside him; Wallace, George’s 
old hound, which he could not keep in town, 
would be asleep before the fire, and Ella would 
often stoop to fondle her shaggy friend. A mere 
country picture, but it was very sweet to him 
upon that chilly and uncomfortable evening; for 
there was home, his mother, and a child, and 
George Percival could not realize any combina- 
tion more exquisite than that. And he was de- 
lighting himself with this fancy when—he found 
himself face to face with a tall, thin being, who, 
turning the corner with the expedition of a har- 
lequin, was brought to a stand-still by this thought- 
ful man plodding homeward. 

“Bless. my soul—opposite »cighbor—happy 
to cross paths with you, Sir—c’ rming evening 
—pressed for time now, but we suall meet again. 
Adieu!” And like harlequin still, an unearthly, 


cadaverous, sardonic sort of harlequin, he fitted 


down the street, 


ee ae ee ee 


fb, 
a. 
7 J 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 
DISMISSED ! 


“Tus, gentlemen, there is evident defalcation ; 
but I am sure I re-echo the sentiments of my es- 
teemed partners in saying we do not wish to press 
a criminal prosecution ; that we shall combine 
mercy with justice in simply dismissing George 
Percival without a character. Weare displaying 
a leniency he has little right to expect, but which, 
as directors of the London and Olympian, we 
feel we can afford to exercise.” 

Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., was speaking at an 
extraordinary meeting of the directors, convened 
to consider the case of Percival, manager, detect- 
ed, it was said, in tampering with the books for 
fraudulent purposes. Gripper, Esq., made out 
his case so convincingly to his partners that, 
with all their faith in and respect for George, 
they were staggered. Yet not one of them but 
pitied him. Gripper, Esq., knew this very well, 
knew his partners would never assent to a pros- 
ecution in a criminal court; and hence his mag- 
nanimous flourish of mercy. 

The assembly was met in the long room used 
by the firm above the bank, to consider how they 
ought to act, and the senior partner rose to reply. 
It was a white-haired old gentleman of benevo- 
lent features and mildly authoritative manners, 
who evidently felt keenly the unfortunate posi- 
tion in which their employé had placed himself. 

“Our friend Mr. Gripper very reasonably sets 
forth the unpleasant nature of this distressing 
occurrence. I have been so long connected with 
the bank, indeed, I may say almost from its 
foundation, and in all that period, I am happy to 
say, we have had no dishonest clerk. This alto- 
gether exceptional affair is therefore most pain- 
ful, and I am exceedingly shocked the London 
and Olympian should have been subjected to this 
sort of thing, so particularly careful as we have 
always been in our selection of the gentlemen in 
our employ, and so exacting in the matter of 
their introductory references, testimonials, ante- 
cedents, and securities. I am grieved beyond 
measure that a young man like Mr. Percival— 
recommended to us by a gentleman of position, 
as we must certainly admit Mr. Beresford Travers 
to be—should have thus forgotten the obligations 
due to Society, to his patron, and to us.” 

The speaker paused, his partners looking 
grieved, while the susceptible Gripper, Esq., ap- 
peared much affected. The senior partner re- 
sumed : 

“You will alton me to say I commend the 
charitable course our friend Mr. Gripper kindly 
proposes; dismissal is imperative, since our con- 
fidence is abused, and in justice to other firms we 
can not, I am sorry to say, permit George Perci- 
val to leave our service with—with a character, 
that is—of course I mean—with the—with the 
character of an honest and truthful young man.” 

The old gentleman was very flustered; this 
was an embarrassing and distasteful office, and 
he had spoken with candor when saying that, 
as the senior partner in the London and Olympi- 
an, he was much,shocked. 

‘Another pari jer, with some hesitation, ven- 
tured an opinio.;, he thought Mr. Percival should 


be allowed an opportunity “of clearing himself. 
A third partner thought it most inconsistent 
to admit extenuation, by circumstance or influ- 


165 


ence, in so extreme a case, and he felt it incum- 
bent upon him to indorse Mr. Gripper’s motion, 
and to suggest summary dismissal; further, he 
was of opinion George Percival should think 
himself highly favored at thus getting off scot- 
free. 

A fourth discerned that, being the manager, 
in such a very responsible position, the offense 
was all the more heinous, and he trusted Perci- 
val’s half-year’s salary due in December would 
not be admitted. 

“But how is the poor fellow to live,” asked 
the more benevolent senior partner, ‘deprived 
of his wage and destitute of references ?” 

“And how,” replied the other, with a some- 
what sarcastic query, ‘does Mr. Percival think 
banks are to continue solvent if managers ap- 
propriate profits at discretion? Money is at this 
time the worst of all commodities by means of 
which to live, and if reduced by a system of ille- 
gitimate credit, it will be perfectly valueless. 
Have Percival in, hear what he has to say, and 
let it be settled one way or another, for I have an 
important engagement that must not be broken.” 

Percival was: called in; he entered bowing re- 
spectfully, and looking more cheerful than he 
had for months. It was the morning following 
upon that memorable evening of the conversation 
with Gabrielle. He felt a little surprised at the 
gloomy looks around the board, and at the cold- 
ness which acknowledged his greeting; but be- 
yond this he experienced no astonishment. 

Upon the senior partner devolved the disagree- 
able office of addressing the culprit. 

“‘Good-morning, Mr. Percival. I have an un- 
pleasant duty to perform, I assure you, but a 
necessary one, and in the interests of that right- 
ful principle which it is our inherent duty as hon- 
est men and good Christians to observe, I must 
not shrink from its performance. It is my pain- 
ful duty to inform you that our books have been 
tampered with, and there is serious defalcation 
in the accounts. We are so placed we can arrive 
at no other conclusion than that you have be- 
trayed your trust, and we are compelled to charge 
you with embezzlement—” 

“Good heavens! Gentlemen, what is this? 
You charge me with embezzlement! I am dream- 
ing, surely.” 

It was so emphatically the speech and the ac- 
tion of an innocent man, the dazed and bewilder- 
ed look was so utter upon his ghastly face (for 
the shock was so intense, so unexpected), he 
might have relied upon this alone, without a 
word, had he but the senior partner to deal with ; 
there were others, however, whose grim, stern 
aspect convinced him it was any thing but a 
dream in their view. 

Then the senior partner said, with a touch of 
kindness in his voice: 

“Cast your eye over these erasures and false 
additions, Sir, and account for them. If you can 
do so in some way different to that we have con- 
cluded, believe me, we shall be very glad.” 

But Mr. Percival stood upon his dignity. It 
was nothing that required casting the eye over 
the book for in his opinion; and he declined 
lending himself even to recognize their suspicion _ 
of himself. 

“No, gentlemen,” he replied, sadly, yet com- 
posed now, “it is quite unnecessary. If you can 
lay this grave crime to my charge, it is so unjus- 


16£ 


tifiable and unaccountable, I refuse to look at 
any writings in that book not my own—” 

“But how can you tell whether they are your 
own or not if you don’t look ?” 

‘“‘ Because, Sir, you but just now stated the ad- 
ditions to be false. Whenever I have erased any 
figures, it has been for the purpose of making the 
accounts accurate.” 

In his heart the senior partner approved the 
argument, although experiencing surprise at the 
lofty stand-point taken by the accused, who, ac- 
cording to his old school of ethics, should have 
been prostrated and suing for mercy. 

“You would not surely say, Mr. Percival, that 
any one else has been tampering with these 
entries ?” 

“TI most certainly should, Sir, if the entries 
have been tampered with, for of a truth it is not 
I who have to answer for that dastardly trick.” 

“But only yourself and Mr. Gripper have had 
access to this ledger, which, as you know, is kept, 
or should be kept, with the account-books in the 
private safe.” 

“T will not say it is Mr.Gripper—I am more 
discriminate than yourselves in my charges 
against people; but I do most unhesitatingly say 
it is not I. There is evidently some most aston- 
ishing mistake in the whole affair.” 

“J should think so,” muttered Mr. Gripper, 
sourly. 

“No mistake at all, Percival,” said the fourth 
partner, who was in a hurry to be off; ‘the whole 
thing is extremely simple, and lies in a nutshell, 
an extremely tight nutshell, I think you will find. 
Figures in our books have been altered, detec- 
tion of which arousing our suspicions—not of 
you, but of something being wrong—we examine 
the accounts, and we find the altered figures 
show a deficiency of £400. Yourself being alone 
empowered to touch either these books or the 
private cash, we can come to no other conclusion 
than that you have heard, which, instead of dis- 
proving, you refute with well-assumed indigna- 
tion, which, I am sorry to say, is less straightfor- 
ward than open and manly confession.” 

Mr. Percival brought his hand down heavily 
upon the table, and stood face to face with the 
board, at bay, strong and reliant in his honesty. 

“Would you have me confess to a thing my 
whole soul would revolt at, and the mention of 
which is loathsome? No, Sirs! Had I the cur- 
like infamy to act as I have been charged, I 
could most certainly confess or do any mortal 
thing; but never so long as I am clear to myself 
and to my God. As to my fellow-man, that, upon 
second thought, is of little moment.” 

Mr. Gripper rose: he wore so strangely kind 
and plausible an aspect, it appeared as though he 
was about to use some representation in favor of 
a more charitable course. No; Mr. Gripper sim- 
ply put a question or two. 

“We will credit your appreciation of truth, 
Percival, and perhaps you will inform the meet- 
ing what may be the qualities of the clerk named 
Andrew Wilson ?” 

“The question is scarcely definite enough, Sir. 
May I ask if you mean as regards character or 
business qualifications,”’ 

“T said clerk, Sir, which, of course, means busi- 
ness,” answered the antagonist, surlily, nettled by 
the other’s coolness. 

“Andrew Wilson is not so quick or correct as 


A MODERN 


MINISTER. 


a younger man would be, but he is thoroughly con- 
scientious, and works with willingness to the best 
of his ability; remember he is only paid half 
what the juniors are getting.” 

‘‘ Nothing to do with it; the London and Olym- 
pian is not a refuge for superannuated clerks. 
We require men we can depend go and men 
we can trust.” 

“Precisely,” remarked a director at one of the 
corners, but as he was cross- eyed, it was impossi- 
ble to tell which way he was looking, and the 
speaker even was matter of doubt. 

“Will you tell us,” continued Mr. Gripper, 
“whether you have or whether you have not sys- 
tematically aided this man, Andrew Wilson, at 
blundering over his work ?” 

“ Again I do not understand your question.” 

“Have you not, upon more than one occasion, 
saved this man from the just desert now about to 
befall yourself—dismissal from the firm? A man 
whose only value in the world, so far as I can as- 
certain, seems to be a taste or talent for violin- 
playing ; a pretty qualification, truly, for a bank! 
I should like to know. what business he had to be 
taken on ?” 

“That, Sir (when [had the pleasure of serving 
you as manager), was distinctly my business. I 
took Mr. Wilson on because he is an educated 
man, and to a large extent competent to carry 
out the duties required. He has known great sor- 
rows, but has preserved his respectability ; he was 
eager for a situation of the kind, and I gave him 
the trial. Iwas very pleased with his gentleman- 
ly bearing, his simple endeavors to give satisfac- 
tion, his persevering efforts, and his uniform in- 
tegrity, and I kept him on, convinced he would in 
time succeed in doing work that would bear com- 
parison with the best. I may be permitted to 
hope you will not turn him off through any mis- 
understanding with myself.” 

In reply, Mr. Gripper looked round the faces 
at the table, and, reading approval, touched a 
rong. 

“Tt will be more satisfactory, a great deal, if 
you take your friend along with you; there will 
thus be opportunity for your continuing your 
partnership.” 

‘“‘Mr, Gripper,” interrupted the senior partner, 
mildly, ““I think it is unnecessary to indulge in 
any more of these reproaches.” 

“Certainly, Sir;” and Gripper, Esq., bowed 
jerkily. 

The bank page appeared. ‘Send Mr. Wilson 
up.” And Gripper, Esq., looked thoughtful, for 
there was a light in George Percival’s eyes he 
did not like. 

“Tf he meets me in the lane by my house one 
of these winter nights, ten to one but he punches 
my head, garr otes - me, or some fine thing or oth- 
CT ign must be careful.” 

Like all bullies, Gripper, Esq., was an arrant 
coward. 

The page opened the door, and Andrew Wilson 
walked in. He looked pale ; 'the unfortunate soon 
perceive a change. There was an air of sober, 
broken-down gentility about the man, They had 
not observed it before; but now, while he stood 
trembling there before them, while they curious- 
ly examined: the individual Percival had so chiy- 
alrously protected, they did notice a something 
that bespoke refinement. 


So- - ee 


Although, thanks to © 
| his good friend, many degrees higher in the so-— 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


cial scale than when dependent upon the orches- 
tral work of the theatre, he yet presented a de- 
cidedly needy appearance. 

Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., cleared his throat 
and looked aslant at the quivering, trembling old 
man. 

“Good-morning, Andrew Wilson. We have 
sent for you under unpleasant circumstances, not 
being satisfied with the performance of your du- 
ties. Be good enough to make out your account 
up to twelve o’clock, and hand it to the cashier.” 

The old man’s head drooped; he leaned heavi- 
ly on the back of a chair; he could not say any 
thing. This grim gathering of moneyed men, who 
could take on and dismiss whole hosts like him- 
self, overawed him ; he felt unable to utter a sim- 
ple word in reply. He heard a quick footstep, 
knew a manly tread was approaching him, felt 
his hand grasped cordially, and, looking up, saw 
through a mist, as it were, the kind face, even as 
the face of a son, that, next to his child, was dear- 
er than all else. 

“Never mind, old friend, I will not lose sight 
of you.” 

“Just what I said,’ Mr. Gripper intruded. 
“Tarred with the same brush, they’ll stick to- 
gether; but next time won’t get off quite so easily, 
Pll be bound!” 

“ Will—you—explain—your—meaning, Sir?” 
asked George Percival, indignantly. 

“Yes, I will, Sir,” answered the other, with ag- 
gravating asperity. ‘It is that the next employ- 
ers you rob will send you to jail without sitting 
half an hour under your impudence.” 

“Hear! hear!” from the man who was ina 
hurry to be off. 

George bit his lip. The control displayed 
throughout the interview bore witness to the fine 
Saxon character. It was the man who had been 
all trembling and crushed who was galvanized to 
life and energy by the insults heaped upon his 
friend. 

“A lie!” he burst out—‘‘a black and mon- 
strous lie!” 

“Mercy on us!” cried the old gentleman, in a 
plaintive, shrill little voice; ‘“‘a scene, a quarrel, 
in the bank board-room! Gentlemen, I rise to 
order.” And, much scandalized, the senior part- 
ner of the London and Olympian rose, holding a 
hand up with deprecatory appeal. It presented 
a white palm, which served for flag of truce; hos- 
tilities ceased, and there was a calm; following 
upon which Mr. Percival courteously spoke: 

“T think this unpleasant discussion need not 
‘be prolonged, gentlemen; it does not seem as 
_ though it would lead to an understanding. Ihave 
a balance of £425 to my account with the bank. 
I will, if you please, draw £25, and leave the £400 
—the amount laid to my charge as deducted from 
the private treasury—until this mystery is cleared 
up. I have no doubt but that I shall receive it 
before long; but failing your ever being perfect- 
ly satisfied as to my innocence, I will forfeit the 
amount altogether.” 

The senior partner bowed. “TI think it but 
right, Mr. Percival, to say that we have been talk- 
ing it over, and feel we can not give a testimonial 
as to your trustworthiness, and my telling you this 
how will spare the annoyance of a refusal.” 

“T should not so far forget myself, Sir, as to 
refer any firm to one that had used me as you 
have done.” And without more ado, bowing cold- 


165 


ly, Percival opened the door, held it with kind at- 
tention until Andrew Wilson walked through, and 
then went out, closing it softly behind him. 

“Cheeky!” muttered the man who was in a 
hurry to be off, to Gripper, Esq. “And I should 
think a good clear out.” 

Mr. Gripper then rose, and waiting until the 
hum of conversation had subsided, said, “I rise 
to propose, gentlemen, that Mr. Stephen Miles be 
appointed manager, in the place of George Perci- 
val, dismissed. We have had convincing proof 
of his usefulness and merit as a servant of the 
bank, of his skilled proficiency as a chief clerk, 
and of his probity and rectitude. I think we 
could not make a wiser choice; I am sure the 
affairs of the bank will prosper in the hands of 
Mr, Miles. Of course this is merely a suggestion ; 
you, gentlemen, may be able to propose some one 
more adapted for this responsible post. I shall 
be happy to hear of a more eligible nominee, but 
at present I can not see clearly where you will 
discover this. Perhaps our respected chairman 
will inform us what he thinks about it ?” 

‘““Whenever I have observed Mr. Miles,” an- 
swered the senior partner, cautiously, “he has 
appeared diligent in fulfilling his duties. I am 
not prepared to signify any gentleman whom I 
would appoint in preference.” 

“Very true,” from the man in a hurry to be 
off, whose legs were getting into a very restive 
condition under the board-room table. 

“Let Mr. Miles be called,” said the senior part- 
ner, and the gong was again sounded, to the sur- 
prise of the worthy housekeeper, wondering what 
on earth was the matter with the bank. Mr. 
Miles was talking with George Percival. One by 
one the late manager had been round, shaking 
hands and saying “ good-by” to each. He volun- 
teered no explanation ; indeed, was too affected, 
for he had been connected with the bank for 
years, and the sorrow, the heart-felt sorrow, man- 
ifested by one and all moved him extremely. The 
effect of George’s communication that he was go- 
ing to leave, and for good, created a sort of panic, 
so great was the surprise, so ominous the signifi- 
cance; for each knew there would be never an- 
other manager like Mr. Percival, with whom each 
had felt safe so long as he did his duty—a feeling 
not always attendant upon duty when there is an 
uncertain helmsman, And last George came up 
to the head clerk, writing assiduously, with the 
methodical, regular precision which never varied 
—a pattern correspondent and accountant, sedu- 
lous and unremitting, but with the most astonish- 
ing roll to the eyes ever witnessed; this roll was 
at its most electric when his late superior arrived 
at the chief desk. 

“Come to say good-by, Miles; going to change 
my quarters.” 

“Whatever do you mean, Mr, Percival ?” insin- 
uating his pen through the indistinct-hued hair, 
and lodging it somewhere on the ear. ‘‘ Not go- 
ing to leave, Sir, hope?” He had turned partly 
round and was leaning an elbow on the desk. 

“Yes, going to leave.” 

‘No misunderstanding, I trust, Sir ?” 

“Yes, a very serious misunderstanding, by 
which my veracity, my honor, my honesty, my 
character, and my reputation are all jeopard- 
ized !’ George spoke warmly; he felt warm- 
ly; he had made a sort of friend of this man, 
in a business sense, and in the courteous manner 


A MODERN 
thus he could 


166 


usual with heads of departments ; 
speak more unreservedly. 

“Goodness! But you alarm me!” said the oth- 
er,in a low voice. ‘Do explain; perhaps I can 
do something for you, recommend some plan.” 

George shook his head sadly. 

“T fear not! It is about the most mysterious 
occurrence that has ever come under my notice, 
and I am sorry enough to be the victim of it ; but 
if the firm hasn’t more faith than I have seen to- 
day we are certainly best apart, for I can not 
work under a cloud. I must have all clear as 
the day, and candid as truth, or I am uncomfort- 
able—so it is as well.” 

George proceeded to explain particulars in a 
few hurried words, and sympathy or emotion 
caused Mr. Miles’s supernatural organs of vision 
to revolve to a phenomenal degree. Removing 
the lizard-green pocket-handkerchief from an in- 
ner cavity, he passed this with mournful meaning 
over brow and eyes; he evidently felt very much 
the painful position in which Mr. Percival was 
placed, and with tremulous solicitude he murmur- 
ed, “I am thinking of your poor dear mother!” 

George saddened on the instant. All had been 
so unlooked-for, so cruelly abrupt, he had not 
thought of relations as yet; but it now flashed 
upon him that before them, as before all the rest 
of the world, he was disgraced. 

“Don’t you think,” put in Stephen, softly, 
“there is legal remedy? That you might place 
this in other hands? Some shrewd, sagacious, 
penetrating lawyer might set this straight.” 

“Don’t care for lawyers.” 

“ Neither do I; but it’s wonderful the amount 
of good they do, although nobody cares for ’em. 
I know just the man you want; he’d ferret out a 
mystery and clear a client, or forfeit his profes- 
sional honor there and then. Never been known 
to faii—he’s a clever one is Coke O’Connor !” 


END OF VOL. I. 


MINISTER. 


“JT shall only be plunging myseif into embar- 
rassment I can not meet. Where is the money 
to come from for lawyer’s fees? I shall just con- 
trive to live; and that is all.” 

“Well, of course it isn’t my place to interfere 
or to advise, but I do so feel for you! We have 
been such good friends, I can not resist it even 
at the risk of seeming officious. If I stood in 
your place, I should draw out that four hundred 
—TI don’t really think they deserve the use of it 
after treating you like this—and I would place it 
at O’Connor’s disposal, in moderation, to draw 
upon toward clearing you; and, take my word 
for it, but he’d do it.” 

There was quite a green, ghastly sort of glitter 
in the eyes, under influence of his interest and 
profound sympathy. 

“No,” said Mr. Percival, firmly; “it is not 
worth taking any trouble about. I am quite 
satisfied upon coming through seathless. I have 
never yet had occasion to lean upon literature, 
but I see po just cause or impediment why I 
should not.” 

At this juncture Mr. Miles was summoned to 
the board-room, and shaking hands, he hurried 
off. George Percival turned to Andrew Wilson 
with his last word in the London and Olympian : 

““T shall not continue in Queen Street now. 
I must look out for some more modest home, 
and you will come and see me, when we will con- 
sider ways and means. Don’t be down-hearted ; 
there is One above who witnesses all!” 

Thus he tried to comfort that other, whose 
heart he knew was heavier eyen than his own, and 
the old man’s nerveless hand dropped the pen 
with which he had made feint to write, and his lip 
quivered with emotion. At his time of life this 
blow fell doubly severe, and to him, more than it 


might have done to many, it represented a griev- | 


ous loss. 


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A MODERN MINISTER. 


Pee TOL OS PRAT LO NS: 


IN TWO VOLUMES 


Vot. II. 


NEW YORK: 


HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
FRANKLIN SQUARE, 


1878. 


PRB Let ta ‘nitduvode 
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A MODERN MINISTER. 


VOLUME II. 


CHAPTER I. 
LABAN WIX, PAWNBROKER. 


Tue effect came afterward, when Andrew Wil- 
son went home to the humble lodging and its 
patient little inmate. He had always gone home 
to dinner at twelve, a special concession through 
the kindness of the manager. Upon this occa- 
sion he went home, but never lifted his eyes; his 
face was not sunned by pleasant thoughts. at re- 
turning to her. He sank upon a chair, merely 
drawing her to him, looking up in the pretty face 
with a mild mournfulness, inexpressibly pathetic, 
and taking her hand, which he held fondly. 

“ Are you ill, dear ! ?” she asked. Amy could 
be intensely sympathetic; the child was naturally 
sensitive. It came of the impetuous, passionate, 
half-wild nature which made her heart glow with 
emotions quite strange to the drawing-room young 
lady of unexceptionable birth. She was a way- 
ward; intractable little creature, perhaps, but she 
had some charming ways with her, and one of 
these was that measure of sensitiveness which 
made her companionship a bond of sympathy. 
The scale is very often turned, and no end of 
willfulness pardoned by this softer forethought 
and tenderness, exquisite alike in the cottage and 
the mansion. Very often the inequalities are lost 
sight of in the pleasant ways which charm un- 
consciously, and the untutored solace of one of 
these little ones will sometimes do more than the 
experienced and coldly philosophic wisdom of the 
elders. Her devoted attention moved him sadly 
—it was so hard having to tell her the ill-omen- 
ed news—yet he would feel the better for her 
sympathy. To her query, solicitous and trem- 
wlous, he answered simply and truthfully, with 
quivering lips, 

“ve been turned off, and our little income is 
lost. I did hope I should never have to return 
to the theatre.” 

“No, you must not do that,” answered the girl, 
thoughtfully, and with a slight shudder. 

“ What, then, can Ido? I know too well the 
difficulty of getting any respectable employment, 
at my time of life, and in a shabby coat.” He 
spoke with a bitterness that amounted almost to 
irony. 

“You have a good friend in the gentleman who 
has already been so kind.” 

“He is as badly off as 1am now. Some envi- 
ous villain has been working the ruin of the best 
of men. O Lord!” cried the old man, in a de- 
Spairing voice, ““why are the wicked permitted 
thus to wrong ‘the innocent 2” 

“You mustn’t give way like this,” and she fell 
upon her knees beside him, her arms resting upon 


his knees, wooing him to smiles. ‘Bear up, for 
my sake; think what will become of me if you 
give up.” This she said to entice him from the 
dull lethargy of pain in which he appeared to be 
plunged. 

“It seems so hard!” he murmured. “Just 
getting a few little things together, making a 
happy home, providing for you, my child, saving . 
you from untold hardship, and now to be de- 
prived of it all—for our tiny savings will melt 
like snow now that I am out of an engagement 
—and, as you say, should any thing befall me, 
whom will you look to, where will you go for 
that safe home you have had with me ?” 

Then she stood up, all brave with her few 
years’ wisdom, and hopeful; but she had not 
meant to lead to this by that remark of hers. 

“Don’t you begin sorrowing because of me, 
nor thinking any thing is about to befall you. 
Remember all you have done for me, how you 
lifted me out of homeless and uncared-for uncer- 
tainty, and provided me with every thing. You 
have given me love which I had never known 
before, and have made a changed girl of me; and 
I have never ceased to think of Dr. Nichols’s kind 
words, that with me rested your happiness. I will 
try to make you happy, by being good and use- 
ful, and by loving you truly; only smile a little, 
and let me see you get the better of the trouble. 
I dare say, now,” added the child, with character- 
istic simplicity, ‘“‘ better folk than we have suf- 
fered somehow like this many and many a time.” 
She walked lightly to a corner, and brought to 
him an old friend, mute but ready with its tune- 
ful fellowship. It had borne the burden of many 
a sorrow before this, and as he mechanically 
passed the bow athwart the strings, and drew 
forth a sad and sensitive quivering, it seemed an 
expression of the overwrought heart itself. 

Days went by, and Andrew Wilson became 
weaker; he tried right and left for employment, 
went hither and thither in reply to advertise- 


j ments, sought far and near for work at the desk, 


and was told younger men were required; was 
indifferently bidden to call again, and called 
again to be coldly told there was no vacancy. 
He persevered, but with a sinking heart, a fainter 
courage; Amy cheering him, accompanying him 
to the very doors, with words of hope to within the 
portals. No one knew how the child suffered as 
he came from each with disconsolate visage and 
dragging footstep, and how difficult it was for 
her to cheer him on to the next. It was Novem- 
ber in London, of itself sufficiently depressing to 
kill a man of his calibre. Andrew Wilson suf- 
fered terribly, not so much from the chill gray 
fogs and unpleasant weather, or from abstinence 


10 A MODERN MINISTER. 


(for he had no heart to take his proper suste- 
nance), as from utter weariness akin to utter 
hopelessness; he wasted to a shadow, and each 
day’s quest became a more dispiriting ,and dis- 
couraging failure. Only the old legend of the 
weaker going to the wall, as they do daily; youn- 
ger manhood seemed to have lost its chivalry, 
and feeling to be banished from the universe. 

One day, returning from some of these unsuc- 
cessful applications, Andrew Wilson, moody and 
sorrowing, looking on the ground instead of 
straight ahead, as these poor souls should, ran 
upon another in similar plight, but whom mis- 
fortune had not deprived of his politeness, for he 
lifted his shining hat with marvellous affability, 
and remarked, graciously, 

“Now I do hope your lordship is not hurt! 
Very careless of me! Don’t apologize, I beg; it 
was quite my fault, quite! Absorbed in thought 
—didn’t observe any one advancing; but I crave 
your lordship’s pardon !”” 

The other laid a hand gently on his arm, speak- 
ing sadly, while setting him right. 

“You are in error—I am not a nobleman.” 

“But I am—Sir Dickson Cheffinger, of Cuer- 
FINGER!’ And the poor gentleman watched nar- 
rowly the result of this announcement. It did 
not create any marked effect. The newly entitled 
was neither astounded nor confounded, but he 
looked inexpressibly worn and tired. Sir Dick- 
son noticed this, and he said: 

“You don’t look well—seem poorly—come and 
have something. Nay, but you shall!” and link- 
ing his arm through that of the other, he dragged 
at the clerk until he had his way; and any where 
but in London, where poor gentlemen are many, 
the spectacle of these two unfortunates, neither 
illumined by very clear lights, one as wearied and 
sick of it all as the other, one with his child and 
his music to live for, both brittle straws by vul- 
gar measure; the other with his noble compa- 
triots and estates in air, both bubble-hued by 
common thought—the spectacle, we say, would 
elsewhere have attracted notice, excited ridicule, 
set good folk staring, and the dogs a-barking; 
but in London—well, in London they were one 
with the many. 

“We will enter this hotel—not like my club, 
but it will do!” 

It was not a hotel, it was a tavern, and those 
grouped at the bar stared hard and grinned: 
cordwainers, dry-salters, draymen, and two or 
three from the cab-rank near. They enjoyed Sir 
Dickson’s call for Champagne immensely, and 


gathered round. ‘Seedy, for swells, mate!” said 


one. “Jackdaws!” was the contemptuous reply, 
although the ornithological application scarcely 
appears. , 

“Be off without paying, you'll see. We're in 
for a shine.” The man at the bar opened a 
mock Champagne bottle and poured out some 
vile effervescing fluid with, 

‘Money, gents, please? Three-and-six!” And 
the cordwainers et cie. laughed outright. Sir Dick- 
son plunged his hand into his pocket, as accus- 
tomed to so doing, unconscious of the gray gulf 
between this and that; but soon withdrew his 
hand, a look of blank dismay overspreading his 
delicate, care-worn face. 

“Bless my soul!” he cried, “I’ve only three 
. half-pence! But, never mind, leave my card,” 
fumbling in every pocket. ‘Left the case on 


dressing-table! Awfully careless! What's to be 
done?” pitifully to the other needy gentleman, 
who, powerless to advise, could only look timor- 
ously over his shoulder at the brawny group with 
the pewter pots, closing them in and prepared for 
a scene. If they expected an outbreak they were 
disappointed, for the two were passive as the 
most guilty of culprits. Meanwhile the barman 
had whistled to another employed upon the em- 
bellishment of a row of cans, and this one had 
slipped out, returning instantly with a police 
officer, who, catching the look by which the bar- 
man indicated the unfortunates, stood before 
them, stern, and as meaning no nonsense. 

““What’s the charge?” Ina husky voice, yet 
sounding ferocious to the culprits, whom he could 
have put one under each arm and have thus 
marched off, there and then, to the station. 

“Calling for three-an’-sixpenny Champagne, 
an’ niver a blissid nothink in both their pockits 
to pay the reckoning !”” 

The officer looked really grim at that, and he 
said, 

“ Well, you'll eft to come along o’ me, yer 
know; and best come quietly!” giving certain 
mechanical appliances in his pocket an ugly sort 
of click. 

““My patience, what an indignity!” exclaimed 
Sir Dickson Cheffinger. “‘ What ever will my.peo- 
ple think!” Even in this emergency regardful of 
his style and family. 

“ Better not let them know my name,” he whis- 
pered to his companion in trouble; “sure to get 
into the papers; such a disgrace—for a Cheffin- 
ger, too! But never mind, Baron Rothschild will 
bail me out—‘ Any time, Cheffinger,’ said the Bar- 
on the other night at dinner, when we contrived 
to have a quiet word together—‘ any time I can 
be of service, command me.’ ” 

Andrew Wilson could not quite understand his 
new acquaintance, who had thus inopportunely 
introduced him to the law. 

“Now, gents, is this little matter to be settled, 
or will yer reserve yer defense ?” 

“Tam sorry, officer, this unforeseen occurrence 
should have rendered it imperative to—” 

“Now, come, none o’ that palavering. Pay 
down, or off yer goes.” 

“No,” said Sir Dickson, with dignity, “I will 
not. I was about to explain the matter, when 
you, with a rudeness I never experienced from a 
police officer before, interrupted me, and—and— 
well, quite checked the explanation, for, by the 
spotless ermine, I don’t remember a word of it 
now.” Said with most ludicrous innocence. 

“Daft! went the round, and poor Wilson 
shuddered, for he thought, what if he had been 
taken in tow by a madman! “The very streets 
seem to rise up against me,” he said to himself, 
despairingly, “‘and in all this city, not one hand 
is raised to help me.” Now, mark. 

The doors were thrown open for the better 
egress of the suspicious-looking confederates, the 
spectators divided; and saying, “‘ Now you'll go 
quietly, won’t yer ?” the officer caught an arm of 
each with a grip which might have been studied 
in the Tower; when, looking nervously at the 
thronged pathway, Sir Dickson suddenly gave a 
joyful cry. A passer-by, ever alive to the appeal 
of the calamitous, turned instantly, and in two 
strides was upon the scene, amidst the conten- 
tious group, which fell back with sullen deference. 


~ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“What is the matter, officer? You are hurt- 
ing them; violence is unjustifiable. Now, Mr. 
Cheffinger, be brief, and tell me what all this is 
about.” To the poor gentleman, whose face was 
now sunny, and relieved of its temporary embar- 
rassment. 

Mr. Cheffinger explained, and the gentleman 
handed his card to the officer. 

“T suppose if I settle this claim, my friend 
will be at liberty? Anyway, I will be responsi- 
ble for his re-appearance, if necessary.” 

The officer consulted with the publican, and 
the affair was arranged amicably, and to the full 
satisfaction of both. 

“And when will Mr. Cheffinger be more cir- 
cumspect ?” asked the Rev. Westley Garland, 
with the old kind smile, as they walked slowly 
along. ‘Suppose I had not been in town, and 
had not been passing, how ill you might have 
fared. And your friend here, who is this ?” 

Mr. Garland looked more sorry than amused 
when the other replied, 

“On the honor of a Cheffinger, I am unable to 
say.” 

The clerk explained, and his voice was so gen- 
tle, while all woe-begone, that the Minister was 
interested immediately. 

“You have not been well,” he said, decisively, 
as warding off contradiction by virtue of person- 
al observation; ‘“‘and—pardon me—you appear 
to be in trouble ?” 

Andrew Wilson was overcome by the. Minis- 
ter’s solicitous inquiry, and that nameless sym- 
pathy which is expressed by manner, rather than 
words. 

“Yes,” he replied, slowly and painfully, “I 
have been very unfortunate.” 

‘“‘Perhaps I may be enabled to help you.” 

Without reservation the clerk narrated the in- 
cidents with which the reader is familiar, and, as 
was perfectly natural, was warm in his praise of 
George Percival. The Minister evidenced singu- 


* lar interest. 


“You would like to know Mr. Percival,” said 


_ the clerk, simply ; “ his manners are as courteous 


and gracious as your own. He has been a good 
friend to me (God bless him!) ever since I told 
him about my little girl; and he said to me, ‘I 
can feel for you, Andrew; I may have to provide 
for one myself some day.’ And now,” said the 
old man, with bitterness, “he is as ill off as Iam, 
in the sense of occupation ; although, to be sure, 
he has his books to depend on, while I have noth- 
ing, and with all the years and health on the 
wrong side. Well I recall now how he said to 
me that morning when it happened, ‘Now, An- 
drew, old friend, I have to put my experimental 
philosophy into practice—to live by my books, 
and by them to keep my little one.’ I don’t know 
what be meant, and I didn’t pay much heed to it 
then, being so overwhelmed myself; but I re- 
member it now. He is not in London, I was told 
the day before yesterday, when I ventured to call 
where he lives, to see if he could do something 
for me. ‘Gone down home,’ the servant said, 
‘into Hertfordshire ;’ and I came away the worse 
for that piece of news. All things seem the 
same! the same!” 


The Minister betrayed no emotion beyond a. 


slightly rising color, but there was significance 
deeper than the mere coincidence revealed in this 
curious encounter. ‘He turned to Sir Dickson: 


11 


““Why have you not let me hear from you? 
I have taken no news in this instance to mean 
bad news.” 

“Very bad!” responded Sir Dickson, plaint- 
ively; “and yet,” thoughtfully, “‘the Princess !” 
He laid a hand gently on his friend’s arm. ‘The 
Princess.. No sooner found than lost, and I can 
not forget that beauteous vision.” 

The Minister thought it one of his olden va- 
garies. He nodded with his usual graceful at- 
tention, and then said, ‘‘Now I want to hear if 
any progress has been made.” 

“You will excuse me,” timidly interrupted the 
clerk, “I must be getting home; I have already 
been away too long.” 

He saw that the Minister and the strange gen- 
tleman were engaged with some private matter. 
He thought, too, of Amy; and, for another thing, 
he did not wish the Minister to see his lodging: 
it was so humble now. 

Mr. Garland shook hands very kindly with this 
new waif added to his long list of pensioners, 
and when Andrew went on his way it was with a 
lighter heart, and to lay before his little protégée 
a crisp five-pound note. 

It served to provide a variety of necessaries, 
but the child saw that her guardian was sinking 
in spite of it all; and when alone she grew very 
sad, taxing her shrewd head how best to relieve 
the depression under which she thought he was | 
wasting away. Amy did not know, as we know, 
that there comes a time of life when a blow is 
thrice a blow; a time when there is less power 
to support it; when a sudden shock, followed 
by continual disappointment, wears away the 
body, benumbs the spirits, deadens the very soul 
itself. 

And one morning, when a thick yellow fog 
overhung the city, and changed to ghastly hues 
every object within and without the houses, An- 
drew could not rise at the accustomed hour. 
Amy made some toast, and prepared the tempt- 
ing breakfast a child so daintily understands the 
contriving of; but he could not take it, for a 
choking sensation was at the throat, and a chill 
that deadened even his terrible anxiety on her 
account. She could not bear the glassy look that 
came into the fond old eyes, and she brought his 
violin, and placed it by his side. Half mechan- 
ically the thin fingers felt for the strings, but 
their coldness thrilled him, and he feebly raised 
a hand searching for the warmer touch he need- 
ed at that moment. She knelt beside him, his 
hand straying to the grateful warmth below her 
curling hair. More faintly the touch dallied with 
the tresses, then the hand weighed heavy upon 
her shoulder, and one of the myriad broken upon 
the wheel had passed away. 

It was a sorry time for the child. At first she 
was too overcome, mourning for her poor dead 
friend, to do any thing; then she kissed the cold 
face with great reverence. She went very slowly 
and sadly down stairs, and told the woman of the 
house. She, with feeling, enjoined her to remain 
in the chamber she herself used, saying they 
would see to every thing. And she did so, faith- 
fully handing over to the child such few shillings 
as remained after the outlay attending that hum- 
ble consignment to the last resting-place. Amy 
met with sympathizers in plenty, but after her 
small stock of money had dwindled away, times 
went badly with her, and it seemed as though 


12 A MODERN MINISTER. 


the period of uncertain knocking about, which 
preceded the theatrical era, had returned. One 
after another the poor neighbors sought to be- 
friend her to the best of their slender means, 
but the fare was sorry and the hardship great. 
Then she fell upon strange quarters, and knew 
one of the most singular of experiences. 
* x * * * # 


A shop stood at a corner where three ways 
met, and the continuous stream of pedestrians 
seemed forever rounding a point—a dingy old 
shop as any in discolored London, bearing this 
sign upon the half-circular board facing the three 
ways, 

Laban W1x, PAWNBROKER. 


The windows were stuffed with the oldest of 
unredeemed pledges, and these the proprietor, 
who never aspired to the accomplishment of win- 
dow-dressing, had not disturbed for a very long 
period. There, cemented by dust, old treasures 
sometimes of happy hearts knew a union of re- 
pose strangely at variance with the bustle and 
unrest of the busy streets. In good truth the old 
shawls and antique cruets, the roll of dress silk 
and young woman’s jacket, the warming-pan, 
snuff-box, and writing-desk, were too far gone to 
attract the cursory attention of one, even, of the 
myriads turning the corner daily. 

Inside the dreary mart of exchange all was of 
corresponding dinginess and dustiness; and old 
Mr. Wix, who conducted the business himself, 
was sometimes invisible in the cloud of dust 
arising when bundles were redeemed after being 
left longer than usual, and the bonder brought 
them down on the counter with a bang that 
caused his timid clients to start dismayed. 

Altogether it was not a nice place; the most 
devoted of his visitors were glad to escape from 
his company and premises. ; 

Nevertheless, ‘Old Wix’s” was an institution 
and an accommodation. It was not unusual for 
people of the back streets to toss up to see who 
should drop in at Laban’s, and out would come 
an old mended petticoat from one, a pillow-case 
from another, an apron from a third, a flat-iron 
from a fourth, and so on, until a bundle was 
made up: the proceeds to be divided, and a glass 
of gin awarded to the delicate ambassador. 

Odd patrons had Laban Wix, and he would 
leer ominously over the bit of card whereon his 
fumbling fingers traced name and amount. He 
was curt and sharp and bearish, and sometimes 
swore. 

The old man did not enjoy the most enviable 
of reputations among those who every week de- 
rived benefit from his liberality ; and he was call- 
ed hard names for his thrift. The more pious of 
his customers averred that one night the devil 
pledged his tongs, and wanted afterward to take 
them out without paying the interest; and be- 
cause Master Wix would have none of such deal- 
_ ing it was said he was very much tormented, 
which might or might not account for his sour- 
ness of temper. Another select story current 
was to the effect of the old man being very much 
of a miser. It was commonly believed that great 
treasures were concealed about the premises ; but 
since nobody ever ventured beyond the shop coun- 
ter, it was clear this necessarily amounted to mere 
speculation. In short, all that the idle and vulgar 
could invent, the malicious circulate, and the cred- 


ulous believe, was discussed ; and the old pawn- 
broker had a sorry time of it. 

Mr. Wix used to keep his shop open long after 
any of his neighbors: he held a theory that sev- 
eral intelligent dwellers thereabouts used to go 
drinking, and in various ways dissipating the 
whole of their hard-earned coin, and afterward 
come to his obliging temple of commerce for the 
transfer of that which represented supper and 
breakfast. Thus he was open very late, general- 
ly until twelve o’clock, when he would march 
round with the shutters, keeping a sharp look- 
out all the time he was fixing and barring and 
screwing; then, from some innermost recess, he 
would come staggering under weight of a door, 
which was lowered on to its hinges and closed, 
locked, bolted, barred, and padlocked. Then sup- 
per, a scant ceremony over the driest piece of 
cheese conceivable. Following this, another mi- 


/nute examination of the premises from top to bot- 


tom, lest any one had, by stealth, crept in while 
he had been writing upon one of his tickets, as 
if a wizened scarecrow like this old half-starved 
eccentric would have had the power of defending 
himself, supposing such to have been the case. 
Then into his small back yard, where he had 
spent more than he had ever spent upon any 
thing, in the purchase of a mortary sort of ce- 
ment, wherein he had fixed all his unredeemed 
old bottles with the bottoms knocked out. Mr. 
Wix used to get it all over by a quarter past 
twelve. After closing, when all.by himself, with 
only the hideous stock in trade about him, each 
article of which was symbolical of some terrible 
care and grief, some shattered home or broken 
heart—then, when alone with his griping, greedy 
harvest, he knew pangs of a weird sort, remorse- 
ful, ghostly feelings, and grim terror-stricken suf- 
fering, which all the counting of his gold or jin- 
gling of his trinkets or flashing of his'diamonds 


could not appease—suffering that made him a * 


coward indeed, all knocking at the knees and 
panting while he tremblingly looked over his 
shoulder, for there always seemed somebody 
about; and he fancied grisly, horrible shapes 
stealing from the bundles, rustling the garments, 
and causing something or other to tumble over. 
On windy nights it was worse even than this, and 
the queer commotion among the store was such 
as to indicate to his troubled mind the still more 
troubled spirits haunting the shelves, pulling at 
the chattels, shrieking and screaming in the top 
chambers, where reserves were piled upward to 
the ceiling, moaning and double moaning in cup- 
boards where the plate was kept; and Laban 
would crouch with very fear, so close the talons 
seemed upon him. Yet it was not convenient to 
keep an assistant, unless that assistant could 
make it convenient to keep himself; but as the 
pleasures and advantages incidental to residence 
with Mr. Wix were not overrated, the contingen- 
cy was highly improbable. Once or twice he had 
thought over the importance of taking an appren- 
tice; but, to tell the truth, he had a deep-seated 
dread of London boys, whom he playfully styled 
the imps incarnate. That plan therefore remained 
in abeyance, and the haunted pawnbroker remain- 
ed haunted unbrokenly. 

One blustering evening, with business slack 
and houses closing quicker for the inclement 
night, it was very dull in at the pawnbroker’s. 


Nobody seemed anxious to pledge. The dim, rain- 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


besprinkled globes were hung upon the outer 
wall for nothing; the public would not pawn; 
and the firm sat crooning in the little den at the 
back of the shop, wondering if there was nothing 
left to pawn, or if a newer and a better shop had 
opened in the vicinity; and very indignantly did 
the old man take an unredeemed poker and turn 
over the contents of the window. There had not 
been such a turn-over for twelve or more years; 
and an old opera-glass, that had not seen the gas 
for all that time, came up and stared all blear- 
ed and sleepily at the changed custodian, whom 
the other pledges, now moved to the bottom, had 
seen grow gray and withered, and completely sat- 
urnine. 

Laban read but little. He had among the 
pawned lots a pile of old books, and one of these 
was Lives of the Misers, and this work became his 
book of faith; but Laban read very little. 

His general occupation in slack times was 
weighing the plate, to see if there was any de- 
crease in weight through keeping; brighten or 
burnish he never did, lest it should lighten the 
gold or silver. He was weighing the plate this 
night we tell of, mumbling to his scales, and half 
swearing because some of the pieces came out a 
degree lighter than he expected. 

A tall and not ungraceful woman entered the 
shop, and with her a little girl; both were thinly 
clad; they looked worn and a-hungered, and the 
woman’s face betrayed a sharp and agonized 
struggle. 

The old man stared at them curiously and de- 
scended from his stool with alacrity—it might be 
a watch or a bracelet; he was in the mood for 
driving a hard bargain that night. Mr. Wix was 
naturally, brusque and constitutionally rude, and 
he mumbled imperiously, as would a man in a 
large way of business whose time was not to be 
trifled with, 

“What yer got, an’ what d’ye want on it ?” 

“ Have — you —a—more private place than 
this ?” tremblingly asked the poor woman, while 
she leaned with great weariness upon Laban 
Wix’s counter. 

The pawnbroker indicated an inner stall, par- 
titioned off for the convenience ae the more sen- 
sitive of his clients. 

“ Now, mum—your pleasure.” 

“What will you allow me on this?” She had 
one hand on the curl-clustered head of the child, 
while the other rested heavily upon the counter, 
where Laban looked eagerly down. It might be 
a diamond. The old man’s eyes glistened; he 
was ina rare mood for diamonds. But there was 
nothing under his customer’s hand; he looked 
in her face, and he came to the decision that she 
was mad; it was evident she could see something 
that he could not see. He drew back—shrank, as 
it were; for he objected to mad people strongly, 
and more particularly to a mad woman. 

could the diamond have fallen? He turned icy 
as he swooped to the floor. 

“ Allow you on what?” he gasped, still upon 
his hands and knees with an oil-lamp; “there’s 
nothing here.” 

“Upon this child.” The hand was still upon 
the little curly head. The man stared at the 
woman; the woman stared at the man; and the 
child, half frightened, looked first at one and 
then at the other. She had a pretty, flushed, 
rain-sprinkled face. The old man had not seen 


Or: 


138 
such a face for the last half of his term of days, 


, and, taken aback, he could only murmur, 


““T don’t think I understand, quite.” 

“‘T have pledged or sold every thing to keep us 
from starving; I have only this left, but—she— 
is old enough to be very handy. We want food, 
shelter, clothing. If you will provide these for 
the child, I will leave her for a time in your 
hands, and her ready service will amply repay 
you; but you will advance me a trifle, however 
small, to enable me to procure some sort of a 
shelter for myself.” 

This was all so unusual and so contrary to the 
business ethics of Master Wix, that he stood 
irresolute, a semi-comical expression upon his 
countenance. Then he pretended reluctance, but 
thinking of his house all the while. He might 
make the pledge very useful, and his dreary 
place would be robbed of its loneliness; but he 
was not going to offer much. That would be 
contrary to his principles. 

“What do you want on it?” he asked, grum- 
blingly. 

“One sovereign,” was the decisive answer. 

“Five shillings,” replied Wix, profoundly in- 
different. 

“Can you lend me no more?” asked the wom- 
an, impatiently, with her arms about the little 
one. 

“Well, you know, it’s not lawful, strictly 
speaking; although I don’t know that there’s a 
law agen it, but it’s the feed, you know. Can’t 
lend more than five. Take it or leave it. You'll 
have less than no interest to pay on that; only 
—remember, at the end of the year, if not had 
out, 2t’s mine !” 

The woman nodded, and while he wrote upon 
the ticket and its duplicate, she knelt before the 
child ; her throbbing brow rested upon its bosom, 
and clasping a small white hand, she passionate- 
ly implored forgiveness for the deed, explaining 
with broken, tremulous sorrow that although not 
her own, yet was she dearly loved. 

Then a hasty embrace, and an entreaty that 
the man would use her kindly; and snatching 
up the money with one last hurried kiss, she fled 
from the place, disappeared under those misty, 
mocking golden balls, and faded away in the 
drizzling, darksome night. 

And Laban Wix stood and stared at the child 
in pawn. 

It was a new sensation altogether, having a 
thing of this sort; he did not even know which 
ought to speak first. Laban spoke: 

“Of course you don’t eat suppers ?” 

The “child was frightened, and she answered, 
«6 No.” 

“But to-night yowre hungry, not having had 
much lately. You won’t ever be as hungry again 
as you are to-night.” 

The child shook her head, her eyes filled with 
tears. She was thinking of the dead. 

‘“‘ Well, there’s some taters left from dinner ; 
put ’em on, and make some broth.” 

He pointed to an unredeemed saucepan, and 
told her the situation of the cistern. The child 
did as she was bidden, then the old man not un- 
kindly took her by the hand. 

“ Just you come along o’ me, and I’ll show you 
i hings is kept.” 

ed the way to the back offices. He felt 
cyst nah and as yet scarcely accustomed to. 


14 A MODERN MINISTER, 


it; but she was so innocently pretty, and withal 
so quick and ready, he rather rubbed his hands 
over the transaction. A rat ran along a shelf, 
crouched on his hind-legs, brushed his whiskers, 
and peeping impudently at the new-comer, jogged 
on homeward to the wainscot. 

“111 wring your neck,” muttered Mr. Wix, with 
evil design anent that quadruped. 

The little girl shuddered at the sight of the 
creature, whereupon the old man re-assured her 
thus: 

“Don’t you be afeard o’ them; they’re my pets, 
and wery useful they are when one can’t send 


With some difficulty and with trembling the - 


woman removed her wedding ring. 

“Light as a feather,” grumbled Laban, then 
tossed both to his new assistant. 

“Two bob; take it or leave it.” 

The head drooped assentingly, and she leaned 
painfully against the partition. Then, while the 
pawnbroker wrote, he bade the child tie a piece 
of string round the bundle, and pointed out the 
place where the ring should be put among others 
of the kind; he then instructed her how to place 
the parcel in one of the uppermost pigeon-holes, 
to which she ascended by a ladder; when she 


PTY WAT BN VK \ Q. 


i i} NY Yih ‘x \\ Y 
1 PERS : 


“WHAT WILL YOU ALLOW ME ON THIS?” 


to the butcher’s. Of course one’d prefer hare, but 
beggars mustn’t be choosers. Wust on ’em is, 
they nibble at the pledges.” 

The child turned faint at the bare mention, 
and thought even the cold wet street was better 
than this. 

A poor woman entered the shop—she carried 
a parcel—and in tearful accents begged some- 
thing might be advanced her upon a little frock. 
Peeping behind the partition, the child in pawn 
heard and saw, and her tears fell like rain. 

“Tt ain’t worth nothing; got a trinket you 
can throw in with it ?” 


came down he pushed the ticket toward her, and 
directed it should be given to the customer. The 
child held her hand out to the woman’s, and 
while she dropped the ecard into the poor thin 
hand extended, returned also the ring. A mean- 
ing glance stayed the exclamation upon the wom- 
an’s lips, and she gratefully took them both. 
When this customer was well out of the shop, 
Laban chuckled pleasantly, and ordered, 

“Put the shutters up—but first sweep the 
shop out:” pointing to an old broom, the hair 
of which was worn to a frill. This sweeping was 
always an operation of importance, for Laban 


‘ 


‘ 
9 
4 
¥ 
4 
: 
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1 AD aa it oe 


A MODERN MINISTER. 15 


_ had come upon rare treasures in his sweeping 


days: pins and buttons, tape, string, and other 
relics of his customers. He had, indeed, once 
found a threepenny bit, carried about with him 
ever after in a corner of his waistcoat pocket en- 
wrapped in tissue-paper, as a sort of decoy in 
case there might be another about. The little 
girl having swept out to the best of her ability, 
the master went over it all again, giving her a 


- lesson, as he called it, and effectually cleaned up 


the whole, bending over the be-handled dust-pan 
by the light of a farthing candle, to sort out the 
finds. Diverse as these were, there was always 
a certain similarity, and he had an old box for 
each: pins, hair-pins, tape, ribbon, buttons, nee- 
dles, paper, string, calico shreds, flannel list, and 
bits of leather off worn boots so often crossing 
his threshold. The sweeping was hardly accom- 
plished when a rough-looking customer entered. 
He handed the pawnbroker a silk pocket-hand- 
kerchief. It was a good one, and probably stolen. 

“‘Can’t lend much on this,” muttered old Wix; 
“it’s going—look a-here, see them lines? that ll] 
be a slit; it’s rotten as can be,” holding it up 
to the light. 

Without a word the man whisked it into his 
pocket and strode out of the shop; and Laban 
was troubled. He meant to have had that pock- 
et-handkerchief. 

“ Billy Johnson’s found another shop,” he mut- 
tered, discontentedly; and then turning to the 
child, “ Here, you, follow that chap, and find out 
where he takes the pocket-hanky.” 

The bright eyes glittered, and she was on pur- 
suit like a greyhound, below somebody’s umbrella 
grown strangely ventilated since left in pawn. 

She followed him along street after street, wide 
and narrow, but her chase terminated at a beer 


‘shop. Then she commenced retracing her way, 


but became confused, for he had led her far from 
Wix’s establishment. Bewildered, she stood by 
a lamp post reflecting: she could not recall any 
definite landmark to guide her. 

_ A gentleman came past, tall, with handsome, 
kindly face; and he paused on the instant, stoop- 
in ; to the flushed rain-sprinkled face, much taken 
by its beauty, or its plight on that cheerless night, 
all exposed, and without even a hat to bind back 
its tangle of glistening tresses. 

“You seem in trouble, little girl; can I help 

ou ?” 

“T have lost my way, Sir,” she cried, flushed 
and panting. 

“Yes, and will be laid up after this, or I am 
mistaken. Perhaps I can direct you. Where is 
your home ?” 

“T have no home—I am in pawn.” 

“What do you mean? Stand under my um- 
brella and tell me.” 

She explained sufficient to account for her 
singular remark, and the gentleman looked down 
upon the little fugitive, much interested. 

“Wix, Pawnbroker,” he repeated. ‘“ Yes, I 
know the name and shop; I once held a Mission 
in the neighborhood, and learned much of the 
poverty and suffering thereabouts.” 

“You are a clergyman,” said the child, with a 
considerable admixture of awe. 

“Yes, and something more—a friend, even as 
my Divine Master was a friend to all the poor and 
sorrowing, all the sick and suffering, and, above 
all, to little children without home or friends; so 


come and let me see if something can be done 
with Mr, Wix.” 

“‘T am afraid he will be rude to you,” she ven- 
tured, timidly, while trotting along beside him. 

“But I do not mind that; and even rudeness 
may be sifted until finer meaning is found. I 
have seen the old man in his shop. I am not 
sure, but I fancy I have been in it. Nay, now I 
think, I am sure of it. I called upon a poor 
woman who was insufficiently clad, and I went to 
Wix’s for her parcel.” 

“You did that!” said the child, breathlessly. 

“ And is it so very wonderful, little one?” he 
asked, with his sad smile. The child was silent. 
It was sweet company to her, and she would have 
prolonged that walk, under the outspreading um- 
brella, comfortable and warm as some tent, for 
he held it well over her. 

In due time they entered the shop, the pro- 
prietor of which looked up with angry suspicion. 

‘“‘Good-evening, Mr, Wix.” 

“Tt ain’t a good evening. It’s one o’ the bad- 
dest and wustest that ever was. You’re the par- 
son, an’ you ain’t wanted here.” 

The gentleman shook the rain-drops from his 
umbrella with undisturbed serenity, and still with 
that kind and patient smile which had so won 
upon the desolate child. 

“T expect the clergyman, like the doctor, is 
not always the most welcome of visitors, Mr. 
Wix; but by your leave I will stand up a few 
minutes while the shower continues.” 

The old man surlily proceeded with the occu- 
pation upon which he was engaged. The Minis- 
ter remarked, carelessly, 

“ Been talking with our little friend here. She 
had lost her way, and I’ve had the pleasure of 
leading her home. But isn’t this a somewhat ir- 
regular transaction, Mr. Wix ?” 

“Tt ain’t any bizness of your’n, that I can see, 
to come along preaching at me for, whether it’s 
reg’lar or irreg’lar.” 

“Well, the fact is I have made it my partic- 
ular business to study the ills and wrongs befall- 
ing human life.” 

“Then it’s a pity you didn’t come an’ see me 
afore. Dve a lot on ’em. But we'll settle this 
pretty quick. Are you in bizness here, or am I? 
Are you in pardnership with me? ’Cause if not, 
it’s no way acceptable for you to interfere.” 

“T intended no discourtesy, my good friend.” 

“J ain’t a good friend. A poor beggar’s near- 
er the description. Bin> here forty year come 
Janivary, and lost money every year.” 

“« What I meant to say was, that the transac- 
tion is scarcely lawful.” 

“You'd be puzzled to show me a law agen it!” 

‘Because it is what no just law-maker would 
ever dream of guarding against.” 

Mr. Wix deigned no reply. He resumed the 
pinning and unpinning of his bundles. The old 
pawnbroker was moth-haunted, and every even- 
ing held an examination of any bundles he hap- 
pened to be suspicious about. 

“T have a proposal to make,” said the Minis- 
ter, with decision. “It is that you allow me to 
provide this forlorn child with some comfortable 
home. I have no doubt but that one among my 
people will receive her and afford the protection 
of a mother; and any expense attending it, I 
shall be happy to set straight. You will admit 
this to be better than her remaining here; and 


16 


in the event of any of her friends calling upon 
you, vou will only have to refer them to me. 
There is my card.” 

“ And there’s mine—WIx, PawNBROKER—and 
if you’ve nothing to leave, good-ev’ning:” toss- 
ing a pawn ticket to the Minister, who, in no way 
offended by the brusqueness, returned it with 
civil thanks. He was a great student of life, 
patient and strong under affront, but uniformly 
mild before misfortune. How did he know what 
long train of troubles and disappointments might 
not have led up to this crinkled and crabbed old 
age? 

«Put your shutters up, Mr. Wix, and let me 
provide a little supper.” 

“ Perwiding a thing, and taking a thing away, 
is a different matter. You can perwide as often 
and as much as you like.” 

The Minister went out, and was gone some lit- 
tle time. When he returned, the place was closed 
for the night. He had brought in with him a 
variety of delicacies. 

“You've bin a long while. 
about shops when I’m hungry.” 

Mr. Garland handed his wet coat to the broker, 
who inwardly appraised it admiringly, then whis- 
pered, confidentially, “I buy old coats, you know, 
as well as lend on ’em,” and proceeded to hang 
it upon a nail. : 

“T think our little maid had better slip off 
that frock and those old boots; you will have a 
heavy medical fee to pay if you are not care- 
fur" 

A look of blank dismay overspread the hard 
face, and he quickly emptied one of the bundles 
and tossed a blue silk frock, a pair of white 
ribbed stockings, and some boots of the Hessian 
make, to the child, with a command to retire and 
change. She obeyed at once, with a glance of 
reverent gratitude at the thoughtful friend; he 
with a singular look of pity divided between the 
child and those sad reminders of some other 
grievous trouble. 

“How full the world seems of sorrow and 
trouble !” 

“Pve had nothing else for sixty-six year.” 

“You must have seen much around you.” 

“The shelves have. Them bundles could tell 
queer stories. Sometimes of a night, while I sit 
here, the most awfulest things comes forth from 
those shelves, and there’s a many creeps from 
the cupboards up stairs—lean, staring, horrible 
things. I passes ’em going up to bed; and they 
clutch me with long sharp claws. Ugh! they’re 
a beastly lot. I throwed that packet o’ dupli- 
cates at ’em last night, but there’s no scaring 
them, and the noise they make arterwards is 
awful. That’s what I want the little un for— 
understand? Sort 0’ company.” 

The Minister took the old man’s hand with 
great kindness, and with sympathy he said: 

‘““You have been too much alone, too much 
confined to the house. How long is it since you 
went for a walk ?” 

“Twelve year or more—wouldn’t go out now 
if you paidme. Pretty scarecrowl’dlook! And 
come back to find the place robbed—of the bun- 
dies, I mean, Ive nothing else; I’m frightfully 
poor.” iY 

“A wonderful deal of good would result from 
a walk. For one thing, you would lose all these 
terrors you tell me trouble you at night.” 


I ain’t partic’lar 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Good? I’ve been waiting for good too long. 
Don’t want it now.” 

“You should go out and seek it. 
useless expecting it to call upon us.” 

“But it has to-night,” replied the old miser, 
with more softened accents. The Minister bow- 
ed, with a pleased expression. With much grave 
charity and composure he was accustomed to ac- 
count for all the strange conduct and opinion he 
met in the world, which, as long as he tenanted 
it, he did not expect to find joined with the nicety 
of an ivory puzzle, or toned and tinted with the 
harmonious delicacy of a Watteau. 

Amy returned, and very pretty she appeared 
in the change of dress. True, the frock was some 
sizes too short for her sturdy limbs, but its color 
in contrast with the rich brown of her hair and 
deep bloom upon her cheek was becoming and 
tasteful. The picture lighted up that humble 
room upon the instant. 

“Well, this is a change—quite a fairy, I de- 
clare, and ready for a good supper.” 

Thus the Minister, patting the glossy head, 
while the child simply looked her thanks. 

“ Poor little thing !” he thought; “I should like 
to know her story, and what has brought all this 
about.” 

“ Better sit down,” exclaimed Laban, impatient- 
ly. “This ain’t a club, and we ain’t often honor- 
ed with wisitors, or we’d get some furniter in; 
and you ministers ain’t used to roughing it this 
way. Lord, how I hate the clergy!” 

And without more ado Mr. Wix set about pick- 
ing a chicken bone. Disdaining those luxuries 
of civilization, the knife and fork, he had taken 
the largest of the bones between finger and 
thumb, and was ravenously gnawing away at it. 

The Minister saw that his little friend was lib- 
erally provided for. He contented himself with 
a hard biscuit, whereat Laban’s eyes glistened 
with greedy satisfaction. 

“You're a small eater, you are,” he said; “you 
can come to supper often on these terms. a 

“It will be your turn next to come to supper 
with me.’ 

“Don’t go out—told you afore.” 

“But I want to persuade you.” 

“T ain’t to be persuaded. Call that bone pick- 
ed, girl?” He snatched it away, and ‘fell to pick- 
ing it himself, then he laid it carefully on one 
side with the simple remark, “Soup to-morrow.” 

“Where are you going to put her?” asked the 
Minister, after supper, indicating the child. 

“‘She’ll sleep on some o’ the bundles ; my ham- 
mock’s at the top.” 

The Minister rose to go, bestowing a glance of 
kind pity, while taking the small hand and say- 
ing good-night. 

“You'll allow her to come and see me to-mor- 
row? I will walk home with her, and bring 
something for your supper.” 

‘“‘T don’t mind on those conditions; and when 
you are about it you might make it enough for 
the next day’s dinner.” 

After their new friend had gone there was a 
dreadful stillness in the place, and the little girl’s 
heart began to quake. There were such gloomy 
corners and grim nooks, such flickering and flit- 
ting of shadowy, shapeless horrors, she experi- — 
enced a sense of strong, overpowering terror. — 
She noticed, moreover, that the old man became © 
morose and silent. She cast slant looks on his — 


It is quite 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


furrowed face, hard-toned as some old Dutch 
masterpiece. She searched every wrinkle for 
one kinder and tenderer than the rest, but all 
were hard, and darkened over with an expression 
more chilling than the hardness. She ventured 
to cough, and he started as though a gun had 
gone off. She pushed the candle a little aside so 


that it could no longer shine upon the face, and 


it guttered and flickered and snapped as though 
it had caught the infection, and he glared upon 
that candle viciously. Down from the niches 
of darkly colored wood, up from the tenantless 
basement, out from the cupboards and shelves, 
came the uncanny company that troubled the old 
pawnbroker. 

“T say,” he gasped, with bated breath, “it’s no 
good sitting here. I'll get to bed. Do you drag 
out some o’ the bundles, and put ’em on the coun- 
ter.” : 

“T couldn’t sleep there, all the things would 
see me. I'll creep into some corner. Shall you 
be far off ?” ; 

“Top o’ the house. ’Tisn’t a lively walk to it, 
either. You shall accompany me—in course 
that’s what I had you for. You'll soon run down 
agen.” 

And he strode off, the child trembling, pale 
with fear, and standing in as great dread of him- 
self as of the ghostly horrors around. She ran 
after him, never daring to look behind her, and 
holding one little bit of his coat tail between 
fingers and palm. There seemed no end to the 
twistings and twinings of the ancient dwelling, 
all deserted save for the stores of property and 
dust-thick reserves untouched for ages. Their 
footsteps had a strangely muffled sound, and she 
seemed to hear a creeping in their rear. Chilled 


- and so desolate, she could not restrain her tears. 


He turned upon her with smothered fierceness. 
“Tf you don’t leave off that snivelling, Pll pitch 
you out o’ the window.” And he pointed over the 
strewn floor to where she could see the reflection 
of a street lamp upon three moist balls dingily 
golden. She checked the sobbing, and they went 
higher and higher still, until just beneath the tiles 
was a cunning recess in which the old man con- 
cealed his valuables. It was here he made his 
bed, slung as upon shipboard, sacking and a 
moth-eaten blanket, and an unredeemed coverlet. 
He gruffly said good-night, and pushed close 
the garret door, while the trembling child stood 
outside, unable to move from very fear. She 
crouched by his door, straining to catch the 
slightest sound, for even that would be company, 
would tell of something alive in the house. She 
buried her face in her hands to keep out the 
dreadful darkness, while her elbows rested upon 
her shaking knees. The rain pattering on the 
tiles made an unearthly fidgeting, the wind came 
soughing along the landing, the sign hanging 
without creaked with the gibbet rhythm—that 
most dismal -of all the refrains of midnight. 
Somebody somewhere had put a flower pot on 
the ledge of an upper window, and this blew 
down, and a tile went rattling after it, making “a 
devil of a din,” to quote from Laban, who also 
heard it. The noise effectually broke the spell 
of horror that had bound the child, by leading 
her thoughts to others—some one had placed 
that flower pot there, that some one was not so 
very far off; she would seek out the back win- 
dows. Houses were close together at this part, 
Vou, 1.—B 


17 


as she had noticed when in the yard below. She 
might see a light somewhere. What company it 
would be! 

Gliding cautiously along the clammy wall, she 
came to a door; it was locked; her heart went 
down a little at that, while the swift feet of a 
rat pressed her foot as it ran over the eminence. 
Farther on she nearly fell through an opening 
that yawned in her very path. She came to the 
stairs, and paused; uncertain about descending— 
they were sure to creak beneath her footstep; the 
old man would be alarmed, might mistake her 
for a robber, perhaps sally forth with some dead- 
ly weapon—but it must be attempted ; and light- 
ly as a fairy she stepped over the perilous ground. 
Opening another door at the foot of the stairs, a 
gust of close, musty air met her in the face; 
but there was no window any where that she could 
see, and she tried the adjoining door. Yes, there 
was a window, and three or four stars upward, 
and the sorrowful, desolate child sat down in the 
centre of the litter scattered upon the floor, think- 
ing of her mother, who might even then be cold 
and white under the great grim river. She look- 
ed hard and with terrible yearning at those stars, 
which, what with her tears and the rain, were 
sadly diluted before their rays reached to her 
heart. She felt so wholly woe-begone and mis- 
erable, and so given up, it required all the child- 
ish faith to go on looking for that window. It 
was no light matter turning out from that room 
again, so cheerless and intensely dark was all 
without. While feeling her way along the pas- 
sage, she suddenly heard a sound that transfixed 
her with horror ; it was a footfall, as light as her 
own, and then a panting breathing as some- 
thing passed close. All that she had suffered 
was as nothing compared with her feelings at 
this moment. Half suffocated, quivering with 
dread, in awful trepidation, she stretched forth 
her hands. They encountered the handle of a 
door, which she opened and darted through, 
straight to the window, which was open. Very 
near she saw the open window of an adjoining 
house, where a boy, who seemed to her even as 
an angel, was placing some pots of flowers upon 
the ledge, probably mindful of some favorites 
before the gentle rain was over. He was all in 
white; a light in the room seemed to shed a halo 
about the fair young head. The face, seen by 
starlight, was of infinite beauty. Without paus- 
ing to think of the dangerous nature of the act, 
with one little cry of warning, the girl flew 
straight to the saving arms, an astonished face 
bending over the nestled captive. It had all been 
done so quickly, it could not but be done with 
safety. In circumstances of instant peril it is the 
wavering which destroys. Whoever she might 
be, however she came, the boy lent his tender 
protection, and held her firm until the fluttering 
heart was quiet and the panting breath was still. 
Then he softly closed the window and drew down 
the blind, by which time the little one was her- 
self again and blushing finely, which of course 
made her look ten times as pretty. On this score: 
there was not a pin to choose between them, for 
a more bewitching pair of faces could not well 
have been found in London. The boy was very 
young, not, perhaps, more than a year or so older 
than herself, yet exercising in this sudden and 
delicate emergency so much of grace and tender- 
ness, a stronger and braver than our girl might 


:. 


18 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


well have been befooled into clinging to the an-' saw him start at mention of the Minister, respect. 


gelic theory. He was so quiet with it all, with | 


ing whose personal description and kindness he 


that sensitive tact so often found in boys, but | drank in every word. 


seldom in girls. So soft with his words and 
ways, she could not have been more safe or more 
contented with the tenderest of women. Form- 
ing an impromptu toga with an Austrian blanket, 
the scarlet and blue stripes of which lent another 
foil to his beauty, he offered the visitor a low 
easy-chair beside the bed, while he enthroned 
himself upon the latter, contemplating, with ad- 
miring leisure and with perfect respect, the flushed 
little face before him. Then he said, with a charm- 
ing smile: : 

‘We are always meeting strangely, Amy. Per- 
haps you will tell me what is the matter now, and 
how you came next door.” 

“ve been left in pawn. Ah! I’ve known 
some trouble, Arthur, since J saw you last.” 

‘“‘Not been ill again, I hope ?” 

“No, not been ill again. I’ve lost him/ And 
since then, Arthur, I’ve belonged to just any 
body.” She cried a little at that, and, all sym- 
pathy, the boy took the girl’s hand in his, holding 
it warmly, and saying: 

“T am sorry for you, so sorry! 
do to help you?” 

“Take me somewhere from this place. I can 
not go back to that house ; itis horrible! I was 
nearly dead with fright when I heard the flower 
pot fall; then I was so thankful, for it told me 
there was somebody about, and I made for that 
side of the house and saw you, and ¢hen I knew 
that I was safe.” 

“Come a little nearer and tell me all about it. 
Whisper, then it won’t wake any one. I’m only 
here far a night or two, while Dr. Nichols’s house 
is painted. They have gone to stay in Sussex 
while it’s going on, and I have to tell visitors that 
the doctor will return very shortly. For any very 
urgent case I have to telegraph directly. I’m 
going to leave the doctor when they return ; the 
life does not agree with my health. I think it’s 
this close part of London after the country air I 
have been accustomed to. The doctor promises 
to try and get me-into some other quarter, and, I 
hope, in some other form of employment. I don’t 
like this. Dve told the superintendent at my 
Sunday-school.” 

“Good gracious! If you’re not bringing that 
Sunday-school up again.” 

““Why not? I am happy there, and the super- 
intendent is very kind.” 

He did not disclose the delicate motives of his 
wish to get away to more perfect strangers than 
these relatives of the Blakes, among whom some- 
thing was ever recurring to remind and sadden. 
Nor did he enter into his longings for some supe- 
rior form of life wherein he could acquire knowl- 
edge of that great and lofty kingdom of art and 
letters, whereby he might rise in the world to 
equality with those of whom poor grandfather 
had told, yet from whom he was so alienated. 

“But I want you to tell me about yourself,” 
he said; ‘about your being there.” 

“Oh, it’s too dreadful!” with a shudder. “It 
makes me cold to think of. Give me a corner of 
your blanket, will you, Arthur ?” 

“You can have another,” said the boy, proudly. 
She wrapped one about her, and cozy enough the 
pair looked, very like a brace of Esquimaux, in 
fact. And so the history was whispered, and she 


ie 
t. 


What can I 


“I think you’ve also met the gentleman who 
has been so kind to me, who called to see Miss 
Rose at Dr. Nichols’s,” 

“Oh! Rose is hername? I’ve not forgotten 
how nice you look out walking. Well, suppose 
I have met with the same gentleman; you are 
not jealous ?” f 

“No, Amy, but I’m going to his house in Lon- 
don to-morrow, and I was thinking, if I took you 
with me, he might find you a home.” 

“He wanted to do so. I will go with you. I 
should like to live with him and you all my life.” 

The sensitive delicacy of the boy was shocked 
by this candor. He flushed to the brow while 
saying, 

“That would not quite do, you know. But 
tell me of your escape. First, I think it was the 
miser himself you heard behind you. I know 
that he Walks in sleep. He has dreadful nights, 
I believe. Last night, when I went to the win- 
dow to gaze at my stars, I saw him, and he had 
a most frightened look, but I can not tell wheth- 
er he was asleep or awake. The poor old man 
must be very lonely.” Arthur spoke with great 
sadness. It revived thoughts of another who had 
been as lonely, but, oh! so different. 

“Tell me—why do you go to the window to 
look at the stars ?”’ 

“Tt is when I am thinking—thinking—think- 
ing! Of atime before ever you knew me.” 

“ Of a happier time ?” 

““Much happier! When one I loved would pat 
me on the head, and call me beautiful and good.” 

“Yes ; [have had that time too. Now, I fear, 
gone forever. But why your stars ?” 

“He first led me up to them, taught me to say 
prayers to the great God beyond them, explained 


all their beauty, and told me of all His love. And. 


at those times I learned to look with reverence at 
the stars, to look upon the sky as home; but 
since that I have looked—when they were to be 
seen—with affection, for it seemed his face was 
watching me; each night before my bed-time.” 

“And the flowers you think so much of ?” 

“ Are from an old garden you would. not care 
to pluck a piece of wall-flower from, but which 
is dear to me as dear can be. I brought them 
here because of the paint. I shall take them 
wherever I go.” 

Bright, beautiful boyhood! Tarnished so soon, 
wounded so often, finding so few to understand 
it! Alone with its tender instincts, aloof with 
its loftier poetry, time of the highest hopes and 
most lovely tunes, of the sweetest dreams and 
purest thoughts, how beautiful is boyhood ! 

“And now, what are you to do, Amy? Of 
course you can’t remain here, and all the peo- 
ple are gone to bed.”” They were quiet trading 
folk, whom the doctor attended, and often sent 
lodgers to, when the upper rooms were empty. 

“‘T will just curl up in that arm-chair and go 
to sleep. Ive slept in more chairs than beds in 
my time, but they haven’t all been as comfortable 
as this. Good-night, Arthur, and thank you.” 

And before very long she had settled her- 
self as described, and was fast asleep. This pair 
—motherless, fatherless boy and girl—seemed 


thrown curiously in each other’s way in this city 


of strange fellowships. 


a eS me 


~~ 


i ee 


in 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


_ He extinguished the light and drew up the 
blind. The soft radiance of the starlight fell 
upon the girl’s face, which, turned toward him, 
with parted lips, down-fallen lashes, and straying 
locks, looked piquant enough for a kiss. He went 
and kissed her; but it was in memory of that ideal 
sister yearned for so long. And when he went to 
sleep it was with his face turned to those self- 
same, coldly glittering, unsatisfying, and unan- 
swering stars. 
—EEEEEE—E 


CHAPTER II. 
THE GENTLE PAGE, 


Laan WIx, who had been on tour the greater 
part of the night, opened the door of the cham- 
ber to which he invariably returned after his noc- 
turnal wanderings, and screamed harshly down 
stairs for the girl. She not answering, he went 
below and explored the whole place, thinking 
with a shiver of the money advanced upon this 
missing article. He examined doors and win- 


dows, searched the bottle-girdled wall, poked the 


unredeemed poker into all sorts of dark closets 
and cupboards, and skipped with a wonderful 
agility right up the stairs; and finding her not, 
swore lustily, calling himself by many a violent 
name for having been weak enough to be taken 


“IT might ’a known she’d be off some night. It 
was alla do, and yet any body would ’a bin taken 
in by her.” 

Having searched for and found the Minister’s 
card, he studied this with some surprise. He 
had not set foot outside for so long, even the 
name of the square where the esteemed preach- 
er’s residence was situated conveyed no signifi- 
cance of the locality. He believed the child had 
fled thither, and to ascertain if his supposition 
was correct, became the difficulty to be surmount- 
ed. Leave the shop he could not, and he had 
nobody to send; but here an idea occurred to 
him, and he stealthily opened his shutters, shak- 
ing with the cold and with his teeth all chatter- 
ing while his wasted fingers clutched at the iron 
bars. The few chilly-looking mortals about 
frowned up at the sign at the corner, and hur- 
ried past old Wix as though he had been the 
devil himself. A coffee merchant wheeled his 
tin apparatus right to the front of the shop and 
invited the proprietor to partake of a cup. Mr. 
Wix turned upon him fiercely: 

“T can’t afford to buy coffee. Coffee, indeed ! 
I wonder what next, and being robbed wholesale 
under my own roof !”” 

The merchant looked sympathetic; he was a 
red-faced, good-natured-looking fellow. The sight 
of that redness exasperated the cadaverous Mr. 
Wix; the good nature galled him; the sympathy 
caused him to fume to the roots of his scant gray 
hair. 

‘Robbed!’ echoed the merchant. 
all about it.” 

Mr. Wix was lowering one of his huge shutters ; 
he pretended to stagger under its weight, and 
contrived to topple it on to where the head of 
that merchant would have been had he not leap- 
ed over the shaft of his machine. The merchant 
gave up Laban Wix, Pawnbroker, therewith as 
a bad one, and would have treated an audience 
all round with a cup of thick coffee each could 


“Tell us 


19 


they have assembled to view the owner dangling 
from his own exalted sign. 

A cabman came along and shuffled to and fro 
at the door, handling some cotton pocket-handker- 
chiefs as though with an idea of purchase. Once 
within, however, he removed from under his cape 
an elegant opera-glass, left, probably, in his cab. 
Mr, Wix was embracing his shutter. very tightly 
when the man entered, and he trotted round with 
it to the niche where they were kept. 

“What's that thing?” cried Wix, clutching 
greedily at the pearl and gilt trifle. ‘It’s a lan- 
tern, ain’t it ?” 

‘It’s a hopera—you knows well enough.” 

“Chuck full‘on ’em—can’t get into a room 
up stairs where they’re piled to the ceiling. Don’t 
want it. Naught else?” 

The cabman hesitated before restoring it to its 
concealment. 

“ Nothing on it, then ?” 

“Well, you see it’s a’most useless; no trade 
for ’em hereabouts. You'll be driving West 
presently, and can leave it somewheres. Many 
on ’em likes taking these things in.” : 

The man made for the door without more press- 
ing, and Mr. Wix, who had all along intended 
securing the instrument, fearful of losing it, call- 
ed out: 

“Well, to oblige you, as it’s a cold morning, 
and I dessay you’ve been out all night, Pll do 
what I can for ye. Let’s have a look at it.” 

This customer was hardly out of the shop when 
a poor woman entered with her husband’s boots. 
He was sick; these must be surrendered to ob- 
tain food. She told a pitiful tale, and the old 
man listened in silence, and she thought that even 
Laban Wix’s heart was touched; ay, was there 
not commiseration in the kinder tone? Was he 
not of all unlikely men about to prove a friend ? 
It seemed so to her sorrowing heart, all clinging 
to that straw. 

“Well, my good woman, I’d like to prove a 
friend to you if I any way can; sorry for your 
case, very. Let me see if I can serve you. Can 
you read ?” 

“Yes,” cried the woman, eagerly; “they used 
to tell me I read beautifully.” A fair light shone 
on the worn face, a happier expression stole there- 
on; the old gentleman might be about engaging 
her to read the paper to him in the evening. 

Mr. Wix handed the Minister’s card to the 
woman with the curt query, 

“Can you read the title on it? 
"tis ?” 

The woman nodded. 

“ My little serving-gal has left me without warn- 
in’—taken goodness knows what with her. I 
know he felt an interest in her—dessay can tell 
where she is—she may even be at his house. 
Bring her back, and I’ve a brand-new shilling not 
wanted for the business which you’re welcome 
to, upon bringing her back, but not without, not 
without. I should much like to help you, mum, 
if I can—very much.” He was fumbling the said 
coin, removed from a small wash-leather bag; it 
was of a suspicious whiteness, and Laban knew 
it well to be any thing but silver. He had been 
biding his time some years, awaiting the oppor- 
tunity for palming it upon some unfortunate who 
would have no plea for returning it. Laban was 
sharer of that sensitiveness common to the iso- 
lated—the dread of trouble and dispute. 


Know where 


20 


Very gratefully did the poor woman speed upon 
her errand, and Laban chuckled to himself over 
his goodness to the poor. 

But when, some time afterward, she returned 
with news of failure, he became more grave and 
saturnine, asking hastily if she had not seen the 
Minister. Oh yes, and he sent his compli- 
ments unto Laban Wix, but the child had not 
been there. He had also heard the woman’s tale 
of poverty, and given her a sovereign to redeem 
the boots and procure some food for home. 

“Confound that fellow!” muttered Laban Wix. 
“He’d upset all London if he could, and rob the 
poor an’ honest o’ their living.” 

“Don’t think so, Master Wix. If there were 
more like him about, London ’ud be a mighty 
deal happier nor it is at present.” 

‘Oh, you’re like all the rest, turn on the friends 
0’ yer poverty in the day o’ yer prosperity. Never 
knowed a person come into a fortin but it spoiled 
?em. But you jist wait till youw’re down in the 
world agin, an’ see how glad you'll be o’ Laban 
Wix’s!” 

The woman hurried from the place with a 
shudder; to another home, which the Minister’s 
charity, and cheering words more valuable than 
charity, had rendered sunny*for the hour, 

In candid truth Mr. Garland was pleased at 
the information this woman’s call conveyed, for 
it announced to him the child’s escape; whither 
was for the time unknown, but it was evident 
she had made good her escape from pawn. 

“ Another quaint episode to add to my life- 
chronicles! The generous-hearted and humane 
may well live on, live double lives and be in town 
and country both, so urgent is the need for friend- 
ly aid and sympathy on every hand. I pray mine 
are sheltered at this time by some fostering care, 
in memory of those I shelter! Loved wife and 
darling child, where are you now? And what 
sore retribution hath fallen on my head—that 
head which conceived the doubtful wisdom of 
this daring course, daily imminent with dread, 
and pregnant with discovery? But a little while, 
my Ella, a little While, and him whom you proud- 
ly loved, graced and honored by fair fame, you 
shall love again, no cloud veiling the light in 
truthful eyes, no shadow on the brow or in the 
home. I feel sometimes as if, should we meet 
by accident, it would be more than my strength 
could bear; and Ella—the effect of such surprise 
on her would be most fatal. I must guard her 
from this, although how to do so with no clew to 
their whereabouts is the problem I would solve, 
Once do this, I will, by Lady Guilmere’s aid, 
break the truth to her—it must be gently broken ; 
but my greatest dread is that some ill chance may 
bring my loved ones to the South.” 

Mr. Garland was disturbed from this reverie by 
his servant informing him that a young gentle- 
man wished to know if it was convenient to see 
him, and the Minister felt glad. 

“Yes; admit him.” He had invited the boy, 
being impressed by his manners. He knew the 
boy’s deep longing, the: aspiration’ for better 
things, the exquisite dreaming never told to a 
mortal. He read it all in the large eyes beneath 
darkly pencilled brows, eyes that seemed weight- 
ed by the mystic eloquence which is language 
only to a few, and he traced by outline of the 
physique the slumbering genius of the soul. 
Often he had met this gentle lad accompanying 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


an old white-haired man bent and bowed, yet 
whom he believed to have seen better days, and 
to whom, as was evident, this boy flashed all the 
sunshine, laughed all the music the life had 
known ; and because of this he had never offered 
to place the child in the path to better fortune, 
although the project had lain next his heart for 
months. But Westley Garland did not press his 
sympathy where likely to cause pain, or when in- 
opportune. He waited, and somehow the time 
always came. He was too delicate and thought- 
ful even to hint that the boy might be better pro- 
vided for; he said no word beyond a kindly 
greeting when he met them on the wide tract of 
Downland. Then he had the mortification of 
seeing his own thought and forethought cireum- 
vented altogether, and the boy whom he would 
have placed at school taken into service, to a 
good home, he admitted, but not to the life he 
would have chosen. And then the boy was re- 
moved to the home in town, which Garland 
thought as objectionable as the other. Hence 
this invitation for some quiet talk together. 

But now came a surprise, the boy timidly tell- 
ing his friend all that had transpired. He had 
left the girl outside in the square, until he knew 
if it was agreeable to Mr. Garland that she should 
be admitted; and he felt very happy at the Min- 
ister’s manifest approval. Mr. Garland sent him 
for the child. at once, and she was brought in 
blushing with pleasure. Arthur had expended 
his slender stock of money upon the pretty hat 
and jacket which rendered her presentable. For 
the rest she appeared as on the previous evening, 
and Westley Garland looked ‘upon her with a 
large measure of pity. 

“You did not think to see me so soon,” he said, 
with his most tender smile, bending toward her 
and taking the curl-clustered head between his 
hands, while looking down thoughtfully. She 
was so different to his snow-flake. ‘Yes, my 
child, we will indeed see if a more suitable home 
than that from which you have fled is open to.so 
defenseless a one. Now run and make friends 
with my housekeeper, I want to talk a while with 
your protector.” 

Thus auspiciously was Amy installed in the 
Minister’s good graces. With a little trembling, 
and half breathlessly, Arthur heard this kind re- 
mark, for now that the moment had come it seem- 
ed such wondrous boldness upon his part to be 
sitting in the presence of this great man. Arthur 
entertained the awe sensitive and shrinking boy- 
hood experiences when alone with some one em- 
inent and honored. He had heard the doctor say 
that this famous Minister had no equal in the 
matter of popularity ; and he remembered a night 
of his preaching in town, how he had heard the 
church doors were beset by a crowd that began 
to assemble long before they were opened ; how 
aisles were thick with standing men and women, 
while many stood without, catching but the echoes, 
yet clinging to these greedily ; and how, after the 
service, he had walked to the vestry, with down- 


cast eyes and pensive thought, yet with a majes- . 


ty that was unapproachable, and the crowd had 
moved forth with a slow reluctance, and back- 
ward-turning eyes, hoping for another glimpse 
of their favorite, and stood outside in groups, 
upon the chance of seeing him again when pass- 
ing to his carriage; how, when he knew of this, he 
would not keep one soul a minute waiting through 


« 

t 
is 
€ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 21 


yanity, but thought of the danger from the night 
air to those thus waiting, and walked gravely 
down the church, accompanied by the wardens, 
bowing kindly and shaking hands with many, 
until he reached the pavement, where the police 
kept back the pressure. Glancing half nervous- 
ly to right or left, not liking the publicity and 
scarcely understanding it, and sitting back in his 
carriage while the servant mounted to the box be- 
side his coachman, and just before driving off 
inclining his head slightly, in recognition of the 
homage, but with a tender smile, an exquisite 
grace, the crowd counted it well worth the wait- 
ing for. All this the boy had heard with feelings 
of timorous wonder, forming of the Minister a 
godlike, ideal hero, as boyhood will, not feeling 
he could Jove this wondrous man—he was too 
far removed for that, and the boy felt too great 
awe for love to be possible—but experiencing that 
touching devotion which renders even contact 
with the garments a thrilling moment that is al- 
most pain. Thus when the preacher first spoke 
to him simply and kindly as might any man, nay, 
kinder than had any save one, now dead, Arthur 
knew what it was for the heart to stand still with 
dread and gladness, with hot yet cold excitement, 
tumultuous yet suppressed emotion. A feeling of 
temporary trouble, much lessened when the preach- 
er deigned to notice him again, to lay his hand 
all tenderly upon the curly head, thinking, per- 
chance, he had no son, but would have liked a son 
so gentle, and yet again when came the invitation 
to this friendly talk. The awe had not worn off ; 
it seemed so great a condescension it was difficult 
to realize it all at once; himself, an atom, in the 
presence of this king in thought and popularity. 
He scarcely dared to lift his eyes to the calm face 
graven of trouble; tried almost to forget this mo- 
ment had come; waited, hardly breathing, for 
the opening word. Spoken softly as a mother 
might speak, by him who had seen it all, ‘‘Come 
here, my child.” P 

The boy went to him trembling, and he just 
drew the trembler on to his knee, and kissed him 
upon the brow. 

Arthur could not bear much; this was so un- 
expected, he burst into tears. 

He felt dreadfully sorry to have done so, but 
could not help it. The Minister did not attempt 
to check him; he knew the relief of tears to 
hearts that are overcharged ; and those tears were 
higher tribute to this man than all the waiting 
crowds that had stood so often and so long. 
When calmer, the Minister talked to him, until 


the eyes sparkled, and the cheeks flushed, and | 


Arthur was no more afraid; yea, knew that he 
had here a friend even to the death. Mr. Gar- 
land certainly did not belong to the class who 
recognize nothing lower than palm-trees in the 
world. 

Cool moss is thick and sweet each side the 
humble flower the long dry summer through ; 
the wind blows the waving grass to shelter it 
from harm; the trample of straying kine is close, 
but crushes instead the bleached stalk, useless, 
unlovely; the great bee which falls with cruel 
weight upon such slender things, buzzes past to 
the mound of wild thyme; the butterfly, even, 
with so gentle a theft, floats on the sunbeam 
hence; above'it, is a slant roof of dock-leaf that 
carries off the rain-drops during rain-fall. They 
who inspect little nearer than stars or lower than 


palm-trees may sneer blandly at the humble 
thing watched over and cared for in its unnoticed 
way. 

Who could tell but this boy would be one of 
the brotherhood whose fancy changes tedious 
hours to winged minutes, banishes memory of 
pain, hangs the world round with pictures; the 
thinkers who make wiser and better and bright- 
er by their thought ; who produce the great last- 
ing work and leave their imperishable mark upon 
the ages; who educate the world and train 
thought itself; who gather the materials of the 
earth, of life, and of nature into essences for 
the strengthening of souls; whose names are en- 
scrolled in the archives of those to. whom man- 
kind owes the deepest debt—the debt children 
take oftheir fathers, and bequeath again for a 
sacred observaiice ? 

An encouraging word may sometimes mould 
a whole future’ destiny; the consciousness of a 
life’s friend may make a character. 


_——— 


CHAPTER III. 
AN ARTIST’S WOODLAND HOME. 


WueEn that luxurious Byronic art patron, Frank 
Lord Ellerby, gave shelter to beautiful Bohemia, 
he only obeyed instincts and followed idealisms 
that had been through life a guiding influence; 
and no more powerful instance of this had oc- 
curred than was afforded by that memorable 
beauty quest which led to his finding a very 
charming partner. <A spoiled child of fortune, ac- 
customed from cradledom to possess every thing 
he set his mind upon, he yet was naturally so 
refined this license had never been abused, and 
it may be affirmed in all candor that his lordship 
was as innocent as it is possible for a man and 
an artist to remain in that world to which the 
Rey. Sydney Smith so delicately drew attention. 

Yet his lordship had never once thought of the 
possibility of his young wife objecting to the 
woodland studio. Indeed, if his lordship wished 
to have a studio in every wood in Europe, it 
might never have occurred to him that it was 
just possible such a proceeding would be rated, 
if artistic, as improper. He had known men 
give up the meet and forswear steeple-chasing 
owing to their necks becoming so much more 
valuable; but then his neck was not in. danger. 
He had also known men quarrel with their club; 
but he didn’t belong to a club. He was all art; 
it was the first principle of his life; and he 
would as soon have thought of breaking up the 
establishment in Brighton or Paris as that ex- 
quisite nest among the fragrant pines. 

Indeed, he loved this) retreat from the world of 
fashion and gayety, with its gems from French 
salons and rarest specimens of native talent, leav- 
ing out altogether the far from obscure work of 
his own; where Gérome was sensuously classical, 
and Gallait grandly historical; Jules Breton’s 
pastorals side by side with some masterpiece of 
Meissonier’s, and the rich glow upon Italian 
studies contrasting with the severe purity of the 
Northern school. Perhaps he had now and again 
thought, if but one of the lovely creations crowd- 
ing the gallery beneath the cones would but come 
to life upon his bidding, how pleasant it might 
be! But he had fastidious notions, and if likely 


22 


to upset his place, interfere with the hangings, 
or pass remarks upon those specimens not de- 
signed for the eyes of the vulgar (even resuscita- 
ted vulgar, around whom a halo had been shed 
while on the canvas), why, then he would leave 
them as they were, in their frames, quiet and in- 
offensive, and always charming. 

When “Walter” glided upon the scene, deli- 
eately as if woven of shreds of starlight, beautiful 
as any Ganymede that ever tended flocks on Ida, 
daintily sensitive, and all shrinking like one of 
those tender hues wherewith he painted some 
veiled Aurora, yet possessed of that indescribable 
charm which is the seal set upon birth, then the 
artist felt that the picture long thought of had 
to some extent taken form, and the familiar of 
his flights into cloud-land had descended among 
the firs, as in old legends of Germah woods told by 
some pretty peasant, while he leisurely sketched 
the scene. He was almost surprised into mourn- 
fulness by that softness of beauty, chaste as the 
softness of pathos in marble; he was caught and 
enslaved in the toils of an elegant admiration, 
slight as a lace-work of ivory; he was charmed 
by this rare picture of nature, that stood forth as 
though carved upon agate, and in his artistic 
fashion he endowed this high relief with grace 
that was haughtily sweet; and whether as goat 
boy of the Tyrol, or gondolier’s son of Maggiore, 
or what else it might be his pleasure to depict, 
that idealism was there. In Lord Ellerby’s opin- 
ion the melancholy did not in the least detract 
from the beauty, or take one gleam from the 
light of that face. Cypress in marble is lovely as 
orange flower beneath the tinting from medizval 
windows, and this idealist knew well that troubled 
music blooms in the heart of manya song. The 
chief wonder appeared to be how “ Walter” could 
have preserved this delicate refinement through 
all that had occurred. Lord Ellerby had heard 
the story of her birth, and was profoundly in- 
terested; and he thought it no wonder that the 
child was sad. ‘‘ What a world this is!” he said 
to himself, while adding the finishing touches to 
one of those studies wherein the fugitive played 
pathos and shed soul. ‘‘ What strains float and 
linger, and fade and die, all unknown and un- 
heard, day after day; blown hither and thither 
like torn blossoms in an orchard during time of 
storm, sensitive and pure as shreds of silver in the 
sea! I like this boy’s eyes, that might wear the 
tender splendor of dead love, that do leap to 
flame beneath the higher thought when I talk to 
him of art; his hands, that lie in my own with no 
unfeeling cold white beauty, but that wear in their 
palm the warm bloom which means so much in 
pressure; that cool languor, like some crystal lake 
with myriad unstirred depths; those tears when 
he weeps as regal women weep, with tears that 
are jewels upon sorrow that is queenly. Will 
He who shelters the flower seed dropped into the 
darkness, and brings it forth in sunlight a blossom 
of fair splendor, forget this rarer flower fallen in 
loveliness so helpless and unprotected? I think 
not; any way, he shall never want a friend in 
Ellerby. He can remain here; it is a quiet, se- 
cluded home for him; some day I will send on 
one of these pictures to Brighton, just to see 
what Flora thinks of it. The fellows will be aw- 
fully jealous. It will be, ‘Ellerby has unearthed 
a treasure somewhere!’ and, ‘ By-the-bye, where’s 
Frank Ellerby’s studio ? 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


can, whether this new face is from the life, or 
one of his erratic dreams.’ Oh yes, they’ll be 
nicely put about, but I'll keep this to myself.” 

This was all very well and charmingly ideal so 
far as it went and so long as they were alone; 
but that day when Lena came in with “ Walter” 
a new period commenced, a peculiarly dangerous 
period, for of course to admire “‘ Walter” was to 
love Lena ; and in a confidential whisper to him- 
self the artist admitted, with characteristic droll- 
ery, “Some fellows say they have been looking 
all their life for the beautiful, and can’t find it; 
but I seem to stand the chance of having too 
much of it in my artistic career.” 

Lord Ellerby was in his choicest retreat when 
the pupil was seen walking down the wooded 
lane accompanied by a girl, and from the dis- 
tance a pretty girl. The walls were lined with 
them, pedestals surmounted by the most exqui- 
site beauty human mind was capable of conceiv- 
ing, the very windows stained with fair saint-Laces 
that rebuked the classic license. The carton- 
pierre painting that served for decoration was 
set with the daintiest heroines of the poets. He 
looked round the chamber contentedly, looked 
out to the shady lane dissatisfied; he did not ap- 
prove of disciples running wild and picking up 
strange nymphs—not allowed in Attica, and why 
here? He resolved to model his academy upon 
severely classic precedent, and with accustomed 
negligent grace sauntered forth to ascertain the 
meaning. 

“Walter” blushingly brought forward her cam- 
panion, who was not blushing, but gazing with 
full and undisguised admiration at the handsome 
painter. Willie Arden—well, Willie Arden was 
not forgotten, and never would be, no matter 
what number of handsome painters she encoun- 
tered upon her way. 

““Who is this, young Sir?” inquired his lord- 
ship, kindly. 

“The young lady is. tired with walking, Sir, 
and faint with hunger. I felt sure you would 
allow her to sit down and rest a while.” 

“Certainly I will, and see that refreshment 
restores her strength before she leaves us. This 
is Hospitality Hall, my dear” (to Lena), “and we 
suffer no wayfarers like yourself to pass when- 
ever we can extend our kindness. Come in, and 
the maid shall show you to a chamber where you 
may remove the dust clouding your pretty hair,” 
lifting the luxuriant blown tresses hanging about 
her wild as some bewitching gypsy’s. 

Lena thought all this very pleasant, and a most 
agreeable change, and she obeyed his injunctions 
to the letter. She returned shortly, looking about 
her curiously, for this bachelor Parisian abode was 
as different as possible to the chaste magnificence 
of the House upon the Cliff. But Lena was en- 
tirely innocent, and construed no wrong of these 
poetic studies; wondered a little, perhaps, and 
may have thought next time she met Willie Ar- 
den she would press the allegory of Men and 
Maids. 

“Welcome to an idle painter’s workshop, young 
lady !” was her host’s merry greeting, as, hearing 
her step. upon the stair, ‘‘ Walter” opened the door, 
and the artist raised himself a little upon his lux: 
uriant couch, and laid down the long Persian pipe 
he was smoking, which recalled St. Aubyn to her 


mind. The child almost loved this smoker for 
I want to find out, if I| the resemblance; the fragrance of the Eastern 


ce. . 
a | 


aa 
aw. | 


A MODERN 


weed revived memory of old rooms at home. 


Well, she felt to be on the way now, and what a_ 


string of adventures to tell the dear one to whom 
she was returning! And she thought she must 
be quick about the journey, or he would arrive 
home first. And once or twice she thought how 
pleasant it would be to have this charming boy, 
who had been so good a friend, to accompany 
her upon the way. She would give much could 
St. Aubyn but see his fair girl face. 

Upon a side-table refreshments of a light and 
tempting kind were in waiting, and the artist 
placed her at ease by saying: 

“My ‘ Walter’ here was just about to have his 
luncheon; I am sure you will assist him at his 
task.” 

“T shall be glad to,” said Lena, simply, “ for 
I’m most wonderfully hungry.” 

The artist looked keenly at the speaker through 
a blue-gray cloud. The words might have pro- 
ceeded from some one of the vagrant gamens with 
sloe-like eyes and raven locks among whom he 
had scattered bonbons on the wharf or landing- 
stage by the Seine, but the voice was musical 
and proud with all its childishness. 

The girl and boy-girl sat opposite one another, 
eating and eying each other’s face and move- 
ments very much as you’ may see a pair of half- 
shy, half-bold, and altogether pretty kittens over 
a plate of milk; the chamber redolent with 
aroma of the woods, with fragrance of the artist’s 
clouds, and with odor from basins, where fount- 
tains played perfumed waters over rocks and 
feathery fern. 

“You are not asked to tell us any thing about 
yourself, voung lady, because you accept our hos- 
pitality ; but if you like to do so, we lend an at- 
tentive ear; and remember, please, if we can be 
of any service, it will give us pleasure.” Said 
without effort and with so much genial bonhomie 
and frank sincerity, Lena replied instantly; and 
it was so amazing a reply the artist removed the 
pipe from his mouth and looked long and earnest- 
ly at this venturesome little pilgrim: 

“Tve been walking about London all night, 
and now have set forth upon the road to York.” 

“Good gracious! What a queer idea! But 
do you mean what you are saying?” 

“Tt is true. I came from home yesterday 
morning to see London, and I have seen it, and 
don’t think much of it. More than that, I am 
disappointed. ve been looking all the time for 
a real lord or lady, and I don’t believe ve seen 
one yet.” 

The artist smiled kindly. ‘I suppose you do 
not often make these little explorations ?” 

“‘T have never been away from home before. 
I dare say I shall get into a pretty bother through 
being away now.” 

“Well, if you belonged to me, I should very 
much object to it. Bvy-the-bye, whom do you be- 
long to, if not too bold a question ?” 

“To Mr. Ashton St. Aubyn, of the House upon 
the Cliff.” 

“¢ And in what part of the world may the Cliff 


be situated ?” 


“Tn Yorkshire—whither I am going as soon as 
ever I can.” 

“T thought my acquaintance with cliffs was 
pretty general, but it seems I have yet to learn. 
Do I understand you are absent ‘without 
leave ?’” 


MINISTER. 28 


“Oh yes, I dared not do so if—if papa knew. 
He is very particular.” é 

“Well, you have taken a wrong step to begin 
with. And how may it have fared with you ?” 

“Roughly. I don’t want to do it again.” 

“Then the lesson hath done good!” and the 
speaker smiled to her over the morality. ‘ When 
you have finished your lunch come here, for I 
want to have a good look at you.” 

She walked over to him, hanging her head 
with pretended penitence, but looking from out 
the corners of her eyes with irresistible wicked- 
ness. And he looked long, kindly, and thought- 
fully, and then said, with comical perplexity : 

“T want to scold you, but I don’t know how; 
and I suspect if I did it wouldn’t do you much 
good.” 

“Not a bit! Dve been scolded lots of times, 
and it never does me any good.” . 

“Well, you strike me as being an original. I 
wonder what Lady Flora would think of you.” 

“Lady Flora—really Lady Flora ?” 

“Yes, really. A lady I know in Brighton.” 

“Where is Brighton? Is it far?” 

“ Not very.” 

“T should like to go—like to see Lady Flora.” 

“Tm afraid if you were to go, and under my 
chaperonage, it would create some commotion. 
You would cause almost as much excitement as 
did my friend Lady Helen.” 

“Lady Helen—wLady Flora—what a lot of 
ladies you seem to know! I should think you 
would be the very one to let me see some of 
them.” 

“Tt is not such an extraordinary request, and 
I am not aware that there is any great difficulty 
attending it. But I thought you were in such a 
hurry to return home ?” 

“So Iam. Iam always wanting two things 
at once. I should like your ‘Walter’ to go a 
little way with me, if you do not mind.” 

“What! Run away with my pupil? A pretty 
thing !” 

“Ts he your pupil? How I wish I could teach 
something, for I should like to have a pupil like 
that !” 

“T dare say you would. One of your most 
happy lessons, I imagine, would be to teach him 
how to love.” 

“JT hope you are not going to launch forth 
upon one of Mrs. Brandon’s themes ?” 

“T have not the honor of knowing Mrs. Bran- 
don.” 

“‘She lives with us, takes care of me, and gives 
lectures, gratis, upon Love.” 

“What a funny girl youare! Uncultivated as 
a young colt. You want breaking in, you know.” 

“T should like to see some one attempt it with 
me. But upon cultivation I beg to correct you, 
Sir; I will speak to you in Hindustani, Hindi, 
Sanscrit, Persian, Bengali, Arabic, Teeloogoo, 
Tamil, Guzrattee, Mahratta, and Malay.” 

“Now I beg you won’t. But where on earth 
did you pick up all those heathenish languages ?” 

“ Athome. Papa understands those and a lot 


/more, and he amuses himself with drumming 


them into me; but I’m not a very apt pupil, ?m 
afraid. Would you like to try me?” 

“No, thank you. I don’t know any thing I 
could teach you; it seems to me you already know 
too much,” 

“Teach me as you are teaching ‘ Walter’—to 


24 A MODERN MINISTER, 


draw and paint. Oh! if I could but do that, I 
should be so happy!” 

‘‘T shall be pleased to make you happy, then; 
but remember, if Ashton St. Aubyn, your papa, 
of the House upon the Cliff, wants explanation 
and satisfaction, it’s your affair, not mine. Of 
course you can stop as long as you like. Since 
T’ve commenced a pension, I may as well extend 
its operations to the utmost. Perhaps, now, you 
have some friend you'd like to join you at your 
studies ?”’ with playful and pleasant irony. 

“Yes,” cried the girl, quickly; “Sir Dickson 
Cheffinger.” 

“ Another friend of yours I have not the priv- 
ilege of being acquainted with. The only Cheffin- 
ger I know is Claude Cheffinger of the Abbey. 
That’s a painting of the old place, yonder, in the 
carved oak frame; mark the deer in the park— 
finest herd in the kingdom. I said to Cheffinger 
one day, when staying with a party at the Abbey, 
‘If ever you part with the estates, let me have 
the deer.’ He turned disagreeable, I remember. 
Of. course I only meant it as a joke; but they cer- 
tainly are matchless; one of the half-untamed 
species rapidly becoming extinct; just look at 
that fellow barking the ash with his antlers. I 
never tasted venison like that upon the table at 
Cheffinger.” 

It seemed so strange, the name now familiar to 
her being bandied about like this; she looked at 
the painting with much interest. 

“‘ And you did that?” 

“JT did.” 

“Then teach me; I would copy that for Sir 
Dickson.” 

““Whateverfor? Totantalize? Nay, but you 
must abandon all such mischievous practices be- 
fore becoming my pupil.” 

Presently he asked, “‘ What nameare you known 
by? What am I to call you?” ; 

‘“‘Lena, please.” 

- “Would you like to go round and look at the 
pictures, Lena? I shall be busy for an hour or 
two upon the canvas.” 

“J should, very much; and may ‘ Walter’ ex- 
plain ?” 

“To be sure.” And as the two went off, roam- 
ing his “arbor of the arts,” as he sometimes call- 
ed this bijou home, he said to himself, “ As in- 
teresting a pair of foundlings as one might desire 
Arcadia to provide. I'll sit down before getting 
to my picture, and write Flora all about it.” 

And he did so; wrote a humorous and slightly 
impassioned letter descriptive of events, and the 
beauty of his “ brace of pupils,” closing with terms 
of warm endearment addressed to his young, flow- 
er-like wife, and an artistic flourish to his signa- 
ture, “Frank.” He read this over, read it again, 
read it as one might read it in Flora’s place, and, 
tearing it up, sat down to write another; and 
wrote another, commencing with terms of warm 
endearment addressed to his young wife; these 
grew cooler toward the centre, where he cautious- 
ly felt the way with, “‘ And now Iam going to tell 
you of a most romantic occurrence which will in- 
terest you more than any part of my letter, and 
which, when you see some studies I am working 
upon, will rouse your wish to see the originals.” 
Then, some dozen lines further, this diverged into 
a slightly impassioned description, closing with 
terms of great enthusiasm, depicting the beauty 


of his “brace of pupils,” and an additionally ar-. 


tistic flourish to his signature, ‘Frank ;” and he 
read this over, read it again, read it as one might 
read who was not artistically enthusiastic, and 
tore this up also. Then over the tobacco he re- 
cited this moral: “The Ancients preserved 
knowledge of accidents ; among Moderns, preser- 
vation is an accident of knowledge. Through all 
time man hath shown his greatest wisdom when 
knowing least. I will be silent, until by word of 
mouth I can reply to all the innumerable questions 
my letter would bring, and which a complete sys- 
tem of Reuter and letters voluminous as the Times 
would be unable to embrace.” After this he set to 
work upon his painting with vigor, and did some 
splendid work between the morn and the meridian. 

Meanwhile Zephyrus and Chloris were happy 
amidst the poems spelt from spice-wood rafters 
to the wainscot, and the ingenious vivacity of the 
one found its echo of companionship in the set- 
tled charm of manner of the other. One knew 
so much; the other knew so little. Each pos- 
sessed attraction for the other; the manners of 
each were so gently winning, so innocent and 
lovable. 

“Walter” stood by Lena, who was sitting upon 
a couch, examining some antique cabinet china 
upon a table, beside which she had placed her- 
self. 

“These are very pretty, you know. I never 
saw any thing like this before.” 

‘“‘Have you not? I should have thought you 
had lived in the midst of such all your life, you 
are so delicate.” 

‘Oh, do you think so? Mrs. Brandon used to 
tell me I was more like a boy than a girl, rolling 
about the floor, and bird-nesting on the Cliff.” 


A deep color had dyed the other’s cheek, no-— 


ticing which Lena exclaimed, 

‘“‘How pretty you are when you blush, just for 
all the world like a piece of this!” She was in- 
dicating a superb Grés de Flandres, the gem of 
the collection. 

“‘ My life has for years been little better than 
that of the poor ones of whom you have just told 
me—I mean those who so interested you last 
night in Covent Garden. Think what it is to be 
the common apprentice of the common circus.” 

“What is a circus? Tell me.” 

‘A tanned ring, round a high pole, supporting 
a canvas roof, which forms a movable building. 
This is transported from place to place for the 
amusement of the people. Horses canter round, 
and riders, male and female, go through feats of 
horsemanship, while jesters and buffoons make 
the audience laugh. That is a circus,” 

“Thank you; I am wiser than before you com- 
menced. I think I should rather like it; so that’s 
the difference between us. What did you have 
to do?” . 

“Ride like the rest—sometimes alone, some- 
times in company.” 

‘“‘ And haven’t you done any thing else? Been 
articled to a firm of solicitors, for instance ?” 

“No,” answered the other, with an alarmed 
look. ‘“ Why do you ask that question?” 


“ Because it is very strange.” And she repeat- 


ed from memory: ‘“‘ A fair-faced, delicate youth, 
with blonde curls short to the head; a slight, 
symmetrical figure; small white hand; timid, 
shrinking manner, very. sensitive; age between 
fourteen and fifteen; and answers to name of 
Water Gorpon.’ If that isn’t your portrait, 


Ai ee 


— a 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


my name isn’t Lena St. Aubyn!” And she tri- 
umphantly transfixed her victim. 

“ Walter” stood discovered, and by this exqui- 
site detective, whom she was half disposed to em- 
brace, yet with something of a scare at heart, 
although outwardly quiet. 

“Well, ’m not going to be hard upon you, 
‘Walter,’ because, goodness knows, I may be in 
the same shoes myself. Now you go back home; 
you’re to be let off, and to be a good boy, and 
never do it again; only you must first agree to 
give me up the papers belonging to Sir Dickson 
Cheffinger, and, second, to give me a real, gen- 
uine kiss. I was defrauded of one the other day 
by my friend Willie Arden, so perhaps you'll 
make up for it.” 

“Walter” made up for it, and Lena sat consid- 
ering—comparing, as it were—then she said : 


25 


carriage were the terror of my early years. I 
dared not love her; Iam not quite sure that she 
loved me. It is my father I think of most, 
because he was so lovable although so grand. 
Have you ever read of King Solomon ?” 

173 Yes.” 

‘Did you ever try to think what he was like ?” 

“ce No.” 

“T have often thought my father like King 
Solomon, for he was wise and wealthy, beautiful 
and gracious.” 

““My papa is thoughtful, and I know he is rich, 
yes, and beautiful, and gracious; so I think 
mine will do for King Solomon as well as yours.” 

Mere idle chatterers in an artist’s woodland 
home, mere gossips met in fairy-land, unconscious 
and unknown. How the summer rose leaves fall 
upon each other’s path with careless splendor, 


CF KR 
a ee, 


sn 


SSeS 


ee Ate, het 
Dowsr Wilsom, 
ML Bra SB eta 


“ AWAY IN THE QUIETEST OF THE ROOMS BY THE WINDOW.” 


“Seems to me there’s something wanting. I 
don’t blame you, ‘Walter.’ You did your part 
very well, but somehow I am not quite satisfied.” 

“T shouldn’t think there can be much that is 
wanting. You have a good, kind papa, but what 
have I to live for?” 

“Well, I suppose we live for other things be- 
sides good, kind papas; or at all events I do.” 

What a play of cross-purposes it was! And 
“Walter” felt grieved by that, so apparent, heart- 
lessness. 

“ And don’t you,’ she asked, “ remember 
either of your parents?” Thinking how much 
alike were their fortunes. 

“Yes; I well remember my haughty mother, 


whose studied grace of movement and majestic 


yet perhaps with symmetry, ruled by an_all- 
presiding hand! How the silver grains are shift- 
ed by each rippling current when angle is to 
angle awkward, yet fitting by the after-flow, of 
time and tide until in exquisite proportion ! 

“And your mamma ?” asked “ Walter.” 

“My picture, I am afraid, is similar in this. 
I can not recall much love, but instead, a calm 
and tranquil lady, haughty, cold, and cruel ; bit- 
ter of word and freezing in manner, but so 
beautiful! Even like some empress of a court 
of great magnificence.” 

They wandered through room after room, one 
understanding about as much as the other of art 
and the priceless worth of the paintings they 
looked upon; but one understanding very much 


26 A MODERN MINISTER. 


of the significance of theme and subject hidden 
from the child-like innocence of the other. 

And when the artist discovered the pair, it was 
not before one of the tine conceptions that were 
his pride and pleasure, but sitting away in the 
quietest of the rooms by the window, and looking 
out thoughtfully upon the trees thinned of foliage, 
upon the array of divers-colored leaves spread as 
a carpet, upon a vista of bared branches that 
shone gray and fawn and leaden upon the lane 
leading thence to the highway for the north. 
And Lena was just saying, “I do so wish you 
would go with me!” when the artist merrily in- 
truded : 

“That’s it, you see; trying to rob me of my 
pupil. Now that is not fair.” 

Lena rose with inimitable seriousness, and 
advancing a step with playful. indecision, yet 
with a gleam of the old imperious firmness which 
in the House upon the Cliff had been predomi- 
nant, she said : 

“<Walter’ has told me you are a lord, really 
and truly. Please may I look at you here in the 
light ?” 

“What, you have found one, then, at last! 
Ah, well, you do not find me so very distinct a 
being from a gentleman, I hope?” 

“ve not had time enough to tell yet. 
longer acquaintance to find that out.” 

“Quite a philosopher !” 

“T ought to be. Dve had some precious les- 
sons.” 

“Talking of lessons, I am going to take you 
for a drive to see some ‘paintings. “ 

“ve seen enough to last me all my life, thank 
you.” 

“The paintings I speak of are different to my 
poor collection. You shall see one of the famous 
galleries of London.” 

“T would rather not go back to London. I 
must be making for home when I do set forth.” 
“Then you won’t go for a drive with me ?” 

“T don’t mind if ‘Walter’ goes.” And she 
added to herself, ‘““Pve had a great wish to sit in 
a carriage, just once.” 

After luncheon she heard a couple of prancing 
horses on the gravel drive, and from the window 
saw the creatures—a handsome pair, that seemed 
to champ and neigh with delight at the prospect 
of a long chase over dry, hard roads. Then EI- 
lerby seated his visitors opposite to him on the 
Juxurious side, girt in with bear-skins, their feet 
in warmth of Russian foxes, looking so lovely, he 
rested back at ease, revelling, as was his wont, 
before such sweet visions; not even remarking 
a gray-bearded patriarch of impressive mien who 
held open the gate at the entrance of the lane. 
It was Jael-Ishmael, king over gypsy tribes in En- 
gland, and from below the palmer hat his keen- 
ly glittering eyes shone like sparks of fire. The 
venerable form was erect as one of the poplars 
of the plantation, and did not bend while the art- 
ist-lord drove past, but took swift glance from 
right to left above the bear-skins, the last gaze 
while the carriage drove through lingering upon 
Somebody’s daughter. 

And then the ancient walked with dignity to 
the camp of a tribe of his people, picturesquely 
situated among the tree trunks that columned 
their retreat, and canopied a fretwork of gray 
and of fawn and of leaden. 

The people formed a rude circle round a fire 


It takes 


(where, by-the-bye, the poetical caldron was con- 
Spicuous by its absence, for their chief was far 
too fastidious to permit cooking messes when he 
was in the woods). 

A stable rug was thrown over a heap of brush 
and thicket, and he sat thereon. 

“Esther! Hath Esther sold of her ware ?” 

A woman of striking beauty approached. She 
wore a large red cloak that partially covered a 
basket upon her arm, which appeared stocked 
with the usual merchandise of the country haber- 
dasher. She merely stood before him awaiting 
his bidding. 

“Hast reduced thy store, my daughter ?” 

She stooped, taking up a card of linen buttons 
from which some dozens had been cut; a small 
tray of needle packets, rows of blue-papered pins 
which she unrolled, displaying different lengths ; 
flat folds of Valenciennes lace, pieces of tape, 
and some woolen cuffs. One by one displayed 
reduction in their quantity. 

“Tt is well. What more?” 

She stooped yet lower, with the upper division 
of her basket removed. There were ear-rings 
and rings, brooches and necklets, pins and 
guards, lockets and charms, and all the array 
of mock jewelry precious to the unsophistica- 
ted mind ruralward. Each ecard she displayed 
showed some removal or other. But while 
bending over these she was not talking of this 
prosperous success, but whispered : 

“The bolt upon the kitchen door can be reached 
by a long arm through the small window opposite 
the dove-cot. The inner kitchen door has a lock, 
no bolt.’ 

“Thou hast done well, my daughter!” The 
woman replaced her ware and moved silently 
back to her station, where a little one was asleep, 
his head pillowed upon an ass, ond: his chubby 
arm about its neck. 

Meanwhile the carriage party was enjoyably 
en route. Anon, Kensington was reached, and 
they strolled for an hour among the paintings, 
The attendance was not large, but select. Eller- 
by, naturally, was interested in one or other of 
the artists—known or unknown to him—who 
were at their studies before the great canvas 
from which they copied; and they came upon 
one of these, an elder at his art, who, intent upon 
his work, and busied guiding a boy-pupil at his 
side, did not look up at their approach, knowing 
well if he looked up at every curious body prying 
at his work, he might do nothing more. But the 


boy did so, and with a sunny face—itself more 


glorious than any picture in that gallery—and 
started from his chair to grasp the hand of 
“Walter,” who, flushing a hundred pretty hues, 
was not less pleased. 

And while Lord Ellerby shook hands with an 
old friend and interchanged the compliments, 
‘““Walter” stood by that friend’s pupil, when many 
hurried questions were replied to, and Lorry was 
introduced to Lena, who thought to herself won- 
deringly whether any two boys upon the earth 
could be at once more opposite, more handsome, 
than the two before her. And Lorry, with pretty 
manner and a breeding peculiarly his own, made 
friends with Lena. 

“Tsay,” said Ellerby to “ Walter,” “‘ what a one 
you are! You will make my gallery a numerical 
success anyhow. You must return and dine 
with us,” he added, to his friend, who readily as- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


sented. A pleasant ride back. The old friends 
chatting upon art, the young friends upon na- 
ture. Lorry sat by “‘ Walter,” and the two were 
soon engaged in more earnest conversation. 
There was much to be told; and even Lorry’s sur- 
prise at thus suddenly encountering the original 
of the portrait in his possession did not restrain 
his eagerness to learn all that had befallen 
“Walter” in the mean time. He did not approve 
of his friend’s refuge, and considered the pursuit 
of art under existing circumstances slightly a 
mistake, and said so. When “ Walter” answered, 
with innocent candor, “ After all I have gone 
through, this home, this life, is the perfection of 
happiness !” 

“Yes, but at the farm you will have one of 
your own sex for company, and a kind, motherly 
lady into the bargain.” . 

‘“‘ That is of less moment to me than you would 
imagine. It is protection and consideration I need 
and value most. This privacy is very welcome, and 
I might not enjoy it at the farm.” 

So Master Lorry was troubled; his great beau- 
tiful eyes scanned the other’s face with loving 
anxiety, and he half wished this captivating wan- 
derer had never crossed his path. “ It’s a trouble 
to be fond of a girl when she is a girl, but when 
she’s a boy it’s positively unsettiing!” Thus said 
the young philosopher to himself, his dark cheek 
tingling beneath Lena’s openly admiring gaze. 

Later on, Lord Ellerby’s friend returned to 
town. Lorry accepted an invitation to remain 
and spend the morrow with them. 


Se 


CHAPTER IV. | 
A STRANGE NIGHT’S WORK. 


THE great gray bridge was cold and grim as 
the stone of a line of mausoleums. Below, the 
river, sable as Styx, glided as bearing freightage 
of the dead; a barge-like trail of clouds above, 
keeping course with the sluggish stream—slowly, 
gradually, composedly passing on and away to a 
dim and mystical beyond. A weird fancy comes 
to one who is leaning elbows on the bridge, watch- 
ing the dark old stream—a strangely vivid fancy 
with its accompaniment of phantom shapes, its 
pageant of gray pain, its layer upon layer of 
startling story. Suppose the ooze and mud of 
Thames to be giving up its secrets, the revelation 
of the river for the first time disclosed, and what 
records would be read in the procession of mem- 
ories thus laid bare! An imaginary picture mere- 
ly, yet full of strange suggestiveness. 

Tide back the water for a season, far above 
bridges there! Ay, let vessels ground a while, 
and traffic of the night be stayed! Bring cunning 
men with line and plummet, and pick and spade, 
and barrow and basket; clear off the mud and 
filth, tenderly wash white faces, deal gently with 
the matted splendor of blonde and brown that 
fathers have twined lovingly; bring cloths, and 
ewers of ware and of silver, and water scented 
of roses ; dip the hands reverently, and lave with 
tenderness, till rings glide off and the colorless 
almonds flush; bring carrion carts and pageant- 
ry of the pest-house ;. bring trays for the jewels 
and caskets for the treasures; we will burnish 
these, learn of the dead gold graven of tears! 
Bring scavengers to clear*the garbage strata; 


-| ure, 


27 


bring cushions of snowy velvet, with blossoms to 
scatter o’er the infants, and choicest weavings of 
your looms to gird about the children. These 
bitter winds pierce chill to-night between the 
arches of the bridge. Bring archives of old 
times, for deep down are men who have been 
there a thousand years or more; and deeper yet 
are relics of the days when savages fought on 
these banks, for teeth of beasts—a hideous com- 
pany. One can see them crouching for the rush, 
gliding with sinewy movement, lithe, lank limbs 
and blood-sodden fangs, at their prowling, raven- 
ous sports, at their coiling, unclean minuet upon 
the banks where wharfage now rears another 
forest. Bring savants here to-night, men of 
science, intimate with the extinct ages, historians 
and men of museums, to whom a fossil is a treas- 
There is much here, and other than geolo- 
gy. Bring sappers and miners, borers, and those 
who excavate, diggers and delvers also, and the 
skilled hands that tunnel their native clay. There 
is work here; the two thousand years’ residuum 
has to be cleared by morning! Clever men of 
the note-book come, for to-morrow all the city 
shall be startled hearing of this. Carefully now, 
if you please. Is there a chemist at our el- 
bow? Good fellow, search the pharmacy for 
that which will add bloom to these young cheeks. 
We have sponged off the crust of this foul stream, 
and see, there is beauty, are there means of re- 
storing the color? Long before Ishmael scatter- 
ed desert roses among the swart girls charmed by 
the splendor of his face, this child played her 
boy-warrior false; centuries before Tiber wit- 
nessed the cradledom of Rome, this beauty, more 
savage than her wolf-cub playmates, floated acorn 
fleets hereon, and plunged all her. ruddy swoop 
of limb on chase adown the stream. Lay these 
cold, brown lines of loveliness in symmetry one 
with another; they were straggling all awry in 
that grimy bed, and a horrid reptile of noisome 
breed nestled on the tawny, wet, bruised bosom. 
There are strange contrasts here to-night! Place 
it beside this sister of our later day, who has 
scarcely felt the cruel blow of the water strike 
her eyelids a cycle of the hours. Mark the small 
cross at her throat, the flower-like, pretty face, 
the skin snow blue as wintry clouds; loop the 
locks up lovingly. A mother ere this has taken 
the tired head on knee, and wound the hank 
of auburn silk for slumber. We will erect no 
grisly morgue this night; the recovered of the 
Thames shall have a fairer housing; the echo of 
the dirge died with its ebb and flow, pean of 
awakened life shall chime in the dawn to each. 
List ! even now there creeps upon us, as we lean 
upon the bridge, echo of girl laughter, glad, and 
like ringing of jewels, and it comes from the 
house far up the river, with laced windows to the 
lawn, where a nest of a chamber is shadowed by 
flowers all the length of the summer days; and 
we see this young fair love, radiant on her birth- 
day morn, sunbeams kissing, odorous breaths of 
the flowers all fanning her beauty; and a grave 
man, bent by the city life, and stern with long 
years of law, but of a wonderful tenderness this 
day when alone with her. She is to have any thing, 
even to the half of his kingdom of love, and the 
river is chosen ; a row upon the lazy, playful, pleas- 
ant, musical old river, with fruits and bonbons, and 
kisses, and flowers—curls dancing in the breeze, 
bared arms, lolling and lounging and leaning, and 


28 


then—overboard ; swift drinking up of the warm 
little morsel, as though the river thirsted for the 
sacrifice, and the closing again of the limpid 
sheet—a white face looking up farewell and fear- 
less, while the wall grew thicker between it and 
the sky; and she is here to-night, lovely as of 
yore by the light of yon old stars, before the 
massed gloom of the trail of barges falling with 
infinite tenderness. Yes, place these together ; 
they are one now. Fall back, ye artists, these 
are no models for your craft; go to the lusty and 
the strong, filled with song as the birds are, and 
laughter as these were! The children of light 
and of color are yours; this grim nursery hath 
none of them. 

What are they bending over, down by the old 
pile, their circle of lanterns lighting up the 
scene ? 

The grapnel of the pioneers is raising wicker- 
work of modern build—a basket borne by the 
stream from meadows where cottage gardens 
slope to its brink. Some child, perchance, es- 
sayed a vessel, and found the thing float forth, as 
treasures do. It is entangled by the brick and 
cord or other weight upon some feline pet 
drowned at night, a soft furred joy of grouped 
tearful ones around the fire that seems colder 
and duller; its coat of many colors gleamed on 
the hearth-rug, the most lovable bit of furniture 
in the place, until one night the man came home 
in anger, and did this deed for a small theft such 
things often make, and scared little faces saw it 
torn from their protecting grasp and thrown to 
the cold, cruel river, by which they watched all 
night with the dumb pain of young bereft of the 
darling. Place it on the flags, not loathingly ; 
once it was a link. 

A commotion there—by the green moist board- 
ing and brick, where sewerage of the warehouses 
trickles its noisome course in search of the part- 
ed waters. They are raising the gaunt, brass-bur- 
dened Roman, a mud-encumbered shield on his 
arm, spear blows still upon the mail and plates, 
warrior majesty stern on the face, and a glory of 
gold below the scarlet Eagle; hand to hand he 
may have fought the great Caractacus; the spiked 
club,of the Briton have ruddied the river for an 
hour. 

And gently now, ’tis a slender form, surely the 
sweetest ever flown from the Bridge of Sighs to 
the shoreless; an old note-book still in the pock- 
et, with leather all peeled and parted, but a letter 
fresh and sad as can be, with the foree of an old 
reminder: from a father somewhere away who 
has smoked his pipe in the ingle-nook with low- 
ered head a long time past, with wistful longing 
in the honest eyes for other ties than these that 
snap all down the years. And her hand clutches 
hard at the pocket as clinging to the last to some- 
thing from there! ‘Fashioned so slenderly!” 
They used to shelter that frail bosom from cold 
and damp, and girt it close with flannel; now 
look! No wonder the winds howl down the 
courts and alleys, and rattle the hoists and chains 
to gibbet symphonies. Mark the horrid swarm 
of rats that feed on such as these. O dainty 
meat for unclean vermin of the Thames! Mark 
the archway reptiles crawling from dank and 
fetid crannies, the shapeless horrors of this 
ghastly channel, staring with bleared eyes at the 
lanterns: and blinking with wonder. They have 
had it their own way so long, this upset utterly 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


perplexes them. A pretty thing this stirring up 
of the river! Better, you think, the luxurious 
boudoir, with its perfume and elegance, than this 
raking up of the fare of a menagerie of terrors! 

They have fished up an old iron caldron, of 
classical type well known below the greenwood. 
Whence comes this? Thrown hither by roving 
troop of nomads driven to these narrow ways by 
city banks, or has the barge-man’s dame cast this 
as worthless from her cabin’s little space ? 

Raise them with care, good Sir! Knit pain, 
twin sorrows, linked drama of despair; two—boy 
and girl, arms wound, dead heart to heart, ice lip 
to lip, blended threading of soaked hair, twined 
fingers, palm to palm; pathos this, if ever! Are 
they brother and. sister, perished amid the des- 
olateness of the grim great city that had no 
hand, of all the millions, for them? Are they 
boy and girl lover, who walked to this adieu of 
grief, seeking rest together with a kiss and a 
clutch, while the water closed and the gas-lamps 
paled, and a new strange music filled their ears ? 
Nay, part them not; life closed for them with 
strong stern song; we are ignorant of its histo- 
ry, but this tragedy in sculpture is sufficient. 

Cast not that old brown hat aside with such 
contempt; it is more glossy than for many a long 


day before it took, beaver-like, to the water, and _ 


yet it has evidently weathered many storms. It 
is battered, crownless, and wanting of rim; it is 
greasy and worn, with the band in shreds; yet 
nobody knows the brains it was wont to cover, 
the kind head ever thinking for others, the ach- 
ing toiler that kept together the home, and faced 
the wolf till it-slunk adown the street, to some 
other house where the women and children were 
left, and no hat was hanging in the hall. 

They have a strange burden there, clad with 
costly exercise of taste of a by-gone fashion, star- 
like diamonds still upon the breast, and quiet 
courtliness Whitehall could not surpass. Some 
victim of a monarch’s jealousy, no doubt, floated 
hither from the Tower. 

Leaning on the hard, observant bridge that sees 
so much and tells so little, we mark a crowd of 
phantom faces and dim-drawn forms that start 
from out the depths. Charybdis! Scylla! de- 
clare thy tenantry! Single out the shadows of 
this clustered train. Come forth, ye woe-begone 
of men and women, whose lives were a triumph 
of creation, who now people the solemn halls all 
mud-bestrewn and refuse-charged! One has 
said we can but stand and look upon the Sister 
Fates of the Parthenon with awe and in despair. 
It is thus we gaze upon the retinue of shades in- 
voked of Thames: seamstress, shattered frame- 
work of woman, whose every hope died out, 
stitched down to death, while sickness crept 
apace with time and wan despair; broken-heart- 
ed wife, abandoned for the stranger whose hearth 
held more attraction; sailor, the faithful grasp 
failing at last, and the void of a brown kind face 
upon the rigging; delicate one, with the babe 
still nestling at the breast as on that fatal night ; 
sweet-featured girl of the bruised trust; priest 
of the glittering ritual that turned thy shallow 
senses; empress of players’ courts, that in thy 
day hadst many thrones, but never a one like the 
horrid place we have thee from; gray-headed 
speculator, of lost fortunes, that didst play dom- 
inos with widows’ hopes and orphans’ lives; 
banker, whom men said harsh things of, while 


wait 
-: - Sy =e) 


» 


z 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


° 


every newspaper was stabbing at thy reputation, 
head of a once colossal firm, strong as some pil- 
lar upon ’Change; ballet gifl, clad in miserable 
print, that didst know the bitterness of the rising 
of a younger and a fairer favorite; clerk, whose 
sorry weakness, despite thy fond mother’s prayers, 
brought this about; father and tiny girl, that 
walked foot-sore, a-hungered, and altogether 
weary, So many miles, to rest in this chill bed, 
with its curtains of November fogs, its quilt of 
noisome scum; apprentice, indentured to a trade 
too rough and gross for thy winged strength, that 
’ wouldst rather die with thy dreams than see them 
ground away; O grave and splendid boy, that 
hast clasped hands with Chatterton and borne 
thine ideals from this brown-green grave! large- 
hearted, dusk-skinned beauty from the hot clime 
of the cactus flower, how came this death to thee 
in the city of the Christians? child, that wast 
known at corners with the orange basket, whom 
busy men spared an instant to peer at, for thy 
fresh young face, how now? that little head has 
been pillowed on many a door-step, and at end of 
it all to come to this grim terrace of the water- 
rat; old woman, venerable, beautiful in thy 
frosted years, hadst no brave boy to save thee 
from the work-house, that this was chosen? 
tradesman, whose reputation being flown, the 
credit scoured the horizon like hawk in quest. 
Thus they pass on in rapid procession, the ten- 
ants of the chambers paven with bones that were 
lissom with grace; that corridor the waters sweep 
through, until it resembles the ivory waste where 
carrion swoop to find all bare. They pass on, 
are lost in the gray haze—perchance to whirl 
their ghastly waltz around the dome of cold St. 
Paul’s. 

Bring that hither! Take brush, clear water, 
and napkin, if you have one. A casket, silver 
surely, and richly chased, with massive banding ; 
a lock, unlike our day, graven with odd signs— 
hearts, lions, arrows, and other allegory; it is 
much scratched and indented by rude cornering 
of bricks and tiles; it has been in uncongenial 
company, one can see; nails of broken tubs have 
irritated this fine fresco, handleless chisels have 
tried to pick a quarrel, tires of old wheels have 
encircled it till its argent paleness blushed ple- 
beian, broad flails of loosened barrels have smote 
it in the face, horrible things have made their 
form upon its decorated plate, blue faces have 
stared at it vacantly floating on, dead dogs have 
rested upon it, and rats have sought to peer with- 
in; bottles have knocked it convivially and in- 
sulted the stateliness they were powerless to 
imitate; the sweep of boats has not disturbed it, 
and all the sluices have failed to wash it forward. 
It is casket, still; and, if we mistake not, that the 
accomplished Surrey sent to the fair Geraldine 
by water, and lost about this part, or said to be; 
verses and gems the cargo. Our smiths will open 
it; we want some polished turnings of the Muse 
just now. 

If we could part the Red Sea again, dig deep 
where the host was strewn, remove the layers of 
drifted sand, or restore the trappings and the 
‘treasures of buried Egypt, we should not, even 
there, recover so many or so curious relics as on 
this night from the Thames—the river ancient as 
Pison, which compassed the land of gold; as 
Gihon, the palm-shadowed serpent of Ethiopia ; 
as Hiddekel, the ibis-haunted stream of Assyria ; 


29 


as Euphrates, the dusky splendor of borne lilies. 
Yet so strange the vast dépdt we have unwatered, 
so manifold the sections of this basement, more 
stored than all the line of blocks upon the 
wharves, how contrary the old brown thing they 
handle with such comical contempt—an earthen 
vessel of rude potter’s clay, yet hereout may have 
quaffed that lustrous Boadicea whom Suetonius 
Paulinus vanquished when the London of her day 
was laid in ashes, ’Tis a great, unwieldy, long- 
necked, thick-lipped, large-mouthed vessel, stolid 
and coarse and heavy, yet hereout may have 
poured the wheaten wine which refreshed the 
gracious Queen of the Iceni. And not as of any 
consequence, but as one more instance of the in- 
congruity of friendships and the kinship of one 
common clay, a marmalade jar from far Dundee 
has wedged itself impertinently within curve of 
the handle. Dissever that before removal to the 
cheery block surnamed Museum, where the ages 
count by platter, and each old pot spells an epoch. 

They are lifting the slight lithe form of a lad, 
on whom many hopes once centred ; the head-gear 
is divided by colored quarterings, the apparel is 
close to the symmetry. The youth rode horses, by 
weight, for money; a superb sample of excess of 
training. Once the coquette Fortune played him 
false—it was a sorry turn; he disappeared; 
bought over, some thought; turned tail, others ; 
crossed the Channel, a few; while a quartette 
whispered of foul play; and all were wrong. It 
was the night he came from Epsom, disgraced. 
An overcoat disguised the badge of his calling of 
which he had been so proud: walking the bridge 
with the listless, uncertain gait of a blank de- 
spair, feeling even the light from the lamps a 
pain, and the hasty glance of the passers-by a 
shame; disconsolate and more miserable every 
minute, and the result of all the superb excess of 
training coming out in the horror of a desperate 
deed, in the fleeing to the shifting, swaying, flick- 
ering sheet, that even as he looked upon took 
form and color of the springy turf. 

What is it now? A ploughshare! Rusty, yel- 
lowed, battered, blunted ; where on earth did this 
run its course; whose broad lands cleave to the 
furrows? We see the pleasant reach leaning to 
the water-courses, the homestead crowning the 
hill, the line of oaks bounding the pastures, the 
fair ridges of fallow land all bared for next sea- 
son’s splendor. And how comes the implement 
of husbandry wedged in this soft soil, this marl 
and clay and alluvium shrouding the secrets of 
this mighty channel ? 

The men are busy with their torches and 
lanterns; dark places are made light; washed- 
away boarding and masonry are brought into odd 


relief; hollows and grim archways, outlets and 


chasms in the stone, shadowy alcoves between 
the piles, loosened bricks with tortuous staples 
and Titan rivets, slippery buttresses whereon red- 
eyed lizards crouch to view our inroad on their 
territory; all the long fortalice of unclean humid 
ruggedness, all the weird niches with their phos- 
phorescent glamor, bared at last. Our band, like 
a detachment of spectral workmen, grope for 
aught the waters have lodged in the hidden 
chambers, and they start the evil denizens from 
their retreat; they turn ont curious vestiges of 
river refuse, flotsam and jetsam of daily tides: 
corks, feathers, bits of wood, decayed vegetables, 
flowers, paper, muslin, old boots, bottles, straw, 


30 A MODERN MINISTER. 


hops, children’s boats, balls, dolls, old ladies’ 
caps, bonnets, dead fish, a tangle of weed, pock- 
et-handkerchiefs, straw hats, parasols, walking 
sticks, fishing rods, oil tubs, shreds of hop 
pockets, a tattered Testament, biscuit tins, a dis- 
tiller’s circular sticking to a Guide to Knowledge, 
bundles of mystery, egg-shells, orange peel, masks, 
a clothes prop, a glove, a cricket bat, scent bot- 
tles, pantaloons, an oar with the clutch of a skel- 
eton hand still firm, a bib and tucker, a camera, 
a coop, the prospectus of a public company, a 
printed sermon, vases, a sweep’s brush, electro- 
plate, various bulbs, a rabbit-skin, a portrait of 
Mr. Phelps, and an ancient Greek lexicon, jet, 
majolica, china, tobacco pipes, a caul, and various 
other things, clammy, horrible to the touch, moist 
and chilly as hand-greeting of the dead, and, over- 
running all, thick growth of excrescent fungosity 
that makes of the track a heath, a warren, a park, 
a valley, of prodigal luxuriance to the teeming 
people of this nether world. And one is curious 
to know whither the passages and alleys here 
submerged used to lead, or where they may now 
conduct. Here are ominous-looking cavities the 
sharpest boy of our party will not enter; sinuous 
channels of communication, dank, netted over, 
and choked, and we speculate upon their termi- 
nation. Old Fleet is outdone by this great breadth 
of labyrinth with its secrets and mysteries and 
mosaic of crevices; these are constructed cham- 
bers, many of them commodious enough for 
crouching of full hosts of fugitives; some open 
to the water, others are cage-like with fierce bars 
of two centuries’ work; others, with iron sluice- 
gates, firm to the pressure of the stream as cas- 
tle doors; others have portcullis contrivances 
causing a shuddering thrill. A forbidding do- 
main of caverns and kennels of the dead, and 
low den-like recesses where are a race unlike any 
order of creation; wonderful grottoes and water- 
sealed vaults, and halls of the embankment, and 
spacious aisles of cathedrals of old sewerage and 
dim subterranean catacombs of city rats ; places 
to which the pleasant jingle of the bells along 
the Strand never comes, nor music of the boats 
riding above it all in the sunny summer days. 
Lishes swim gleefully past, avoiding these; living 
streams above bridge flow on unthinking of it all, 
and the mysteries of the Thames lie undisturbed. 
But this is over; henceforth it will be known, and 
the crowd will gaze upon the river with new in- 
terest. 

A herd of Arabs is upon us. From alley to al- 
ley, long after closing of the theatres, it has been 
whispered that something is going on down by 
the bridge; they arrive in shoals, stand on heads, 
dive the soft deposit, grimace at the walls of wa- 
ter, vault with the lanterns like will-o’-the-wisps, 
and chase the gray sachems of the rat tribe all 
the length of bricken and boarded ledge. Other 
waifs and strays are here, from wharves and docks 
and stairs and piers; amphibious ones, to whom 
the river is a parent, and who resent this drying 
process with threats and curses. They think we 
would transport the bed away to some region of 
which they have heard only by tradition; some 
country where the hay grows that passes on the 
barges, the garden produce that goes rumbling 
past to the borough market, where a cabbage plot 
is their realism of earthly joy, and the poultry- 
yard, where guinea-pigs lave their mottled sides 
in an old brown and yellow baking dish, is the 


only future desired, when all the mud-larks and 
scum-scraping are at an end. 

Even as we watch these destitute ones, a stir- 
ring operation proceeds farther on. Hereabouts 
the collision happened eleven years since—a pleas- 
ure-steamer and a barge heavily freighted with 
grain; the stolid old hulk was comparatively un- 
injured, the lighter vessel went down, and many 
were plunged into mourning; the consternation 
is still fresh upon the memory. It is left free to 
explore now. Mud is thick on velvet of the cab- 
in, on maple, and glass, and gilt; it is a scene of 
very wreckage, with the best of it broken and 
shivered to pieces, and the strongest twisted and 
rent. Decorations are chipped and rotted, elec- 
tro of the saloon corroded, curtains and carpets 
nibbled and torn, chandeliers overnetted by 
weeds, and the whole dismantled deck a strange 
scene of ruin in a state of preservation. A man 
stands by the steward’s locker, his apron green 
as the rest, his beard like Neptune’s chatelaine, 
incrusted with innumerable shells. It is all a 
waste ; the drip, drip of water, the toil and creak 
of wood too rotted to bear the strain of iron and 
rope, the splash as our men move over the eddies 
and gullies, the melancholy soughing of the wind 
—this is all the utterance. And they who went 
down, who changed color in the homes to sombre 
deadness ; the fresh-faced youth with his girl— 
they could not afford a trip to the sea, but having 
a day for pleasure, chose the rippling sunny 
Thames—the old man and his dame from the 
country town away there, Midland, who had not 
been on the river since the wedding day when it 
was just such another, all smiles and invitation ; 
the overworked fore-woman from the outfitting 
warehouse, with but one holiday she could call 
her own, and that must be spent upon the river, 


it was so sparkling and welcoming ; the butcher, 


sprucely attired with the best tie of crimson, vest 
of blue, coat of purple, trousers of check, horse- 
shoe pin, and guard woven by maid of the tav- 
ern; the neat young person who taught the piano 
in small streets—that knowledge of notes was 
her sole wealth, and it brought in little enough, 
yet out of it she contrived to save for this journey 
down the Thames, with its gleesome, healthful 
change; the school-boys with their sisters, Lon- 
doners all, and accustomed to going in company, 
with laughter and love in their beautiful eyes, 
and thrilling with joy in the bloom of their youth. 
Hold the torch aloft! It might be a group of 
Buonarotti’s or Cellini’s, hand in hand, sculpt 
limb to limb. Phidias, Praxiteles, Lysippus, 


Pheidon, Chares, your subtle skill never posed, ° 


or chased, or carved, or chiselled white magnifi- 
cence that equalled this—a mere dead group of 
English children, flushed to the last with hope, 
clinging hard to one another, while the curious, 
chill wave arose and benumbed the limbs, but 
not the lips that gave the good-by kiss. ‘ 

Yet further on are men bringing to the light 
of modern times an old sedan, entangled upon 
it a tiny glove, dropped maybe from over the 
bridge. What little shell-pink hand was cased 
in this white silk, what powdered, patched old 
countess rode in this quaint vehicle to the state- 
ly minuet in the nave of old St. Paul’s ? 

The grappling hook has fastened upon the wire 
of a cage; a feather or two of rich-hued yellow 
all that remains of the sometime songster. But 
we see this picture linked with the rusted bars 


A MODERN MINISTER. 31 


and bent and broken home: a pleasant villa, 
like a nest itself; a young wife left much alone, 
and we hear her whisper her sorrows to the pet— 
the only living thing that loves her, it seems, in 
the loneliness. The story has ended here for 
one of them; and the other? Weseea delicate, 
poor lady upon her knees, leaning the throbbing 
brow upon the icy stone of the bridge, in her 
hand a cage covered round with paper; ¢his is 
dropped, the horrid splash ringing in her ears 
through every street as she hurries to her broken 
home. They might take all else, but she could 
not bear that to fall into the stranger’s hands. 
A situation on the morrow—for sake of the dar- 
ling that prattled all night for the lost playmate, 
a music of anguish to the stricken woman enter- 
ing upon the battle. 

What is the burden lifted now with reverent 
care? Why do these artists gaze with so sad an 
interest upon this face with its calm majesty ? 
This was one of them. Let memory travel back 
and recall how one of daring genius was missed 
from his old studio at Brompton; how friends 
searched all his favorite haunts, even to the re- 
gion of his grand novitiate in Italy; how the 
beautiful unknown of the passionate face and 
faultless form that had figured in so many of his 
pictures was sought also and unavailingly, and 
how men said the painter had gone mad over the 
ideal of some earlier story. How the house with 
the garden, the deep blue curtains, and the ex- 
quisite untidiness out-doors and in, were kept, 
even as he had left it, by the mother who had 
fallen upon that mournful pain of taking posses- 
sion, and who never lost faith in his return. 
Upon the wall fronting his work a dusky face, 
and on the easel the last study—a curious piece 
of vivid imagery representing a long stretch of 
murky water, with a glimmer here and there from 
lamps upon the bank, and a train of spectral ones 
crouching by the brink, and, low down in the 
toils of river-weed and wreckage drifted from 
northern seas, himself; but that grim picture’s 
significant realism failed to touch her faith. It 
was left with ail else, with the brilliant confusion 
of the artist’s home; the volumes scarcely of the 
order approved by the gentle Christian mother; 
with the old Stradivarius she knew the tone of 
as well as the echo of her proud boy’s voice; 
the hookah, odorous yet, the Turkish compound 
but part consumed; the embossed programmes 
of theatres and a dead bouquet}; colors fresh on 
the palette, and the silver and pearl knife stained 
with an opal pigment; the brigand hat, the cloak 
thrown carelessly upon the velvet couch, all left 
as he had loved them in the chamber where he 
had spent all his soul, grown weird, traced mys- 
tie picturing, and vanished, even like the gloomy 
souls of fable. Replace the coat about the shat- 
tered, battered breast, the cap above the brain 
that will think and suffer no more; all the proof 
of skill has ended; the hand will no longer spell 
sweet things with color; the eye that saw beauty 
so quickly is glazed to the fairer language; con- 
ception that wrought in tints and hues the love- 
liest of dreams shall weave no longer in the 
earthly studio. 

They are shovelling lumps of some black de- 
posit into baskets; coal or bog-oak of the forest 
that once stood here. One old savant in specta- 
cles stoops over a vein of metal. They are not 
down here every night, and they agree with David 


in this at least, that there may be wonders in the 
deep. 

Tin is here in abundance, the ancient tin that 
gave the island some reputation, and also tin of 
the moderns—all the old Dutch ovens and dust- 
pans of London, it would seem. 

And now a quaint brass shield is brought to 
light; figures thereon tell of days when gentle- 
men allied with one or other of the Roses. Some- 
thing is caught on the arm-rest, dripping like a 
shaggy dog, and reminds one of your little girl or 
ours, for it is a tiny jacket of astrakhan lined with 
silk, and sewn with lace, and of the best quality ; 
fallen, let us hope, from the bridge or over the 
side of some boat. 

And here they have a tambourine, relic of some 
roving troupe of acrobats, and the heir-loom of 
picturesque vagrants — Bohemians, Zingari, Gi- 
tanos, Zigeuner, or whoever lost it; calling to 
memory the pleasant march, with the sultry sun 
full blaze upon the glossy tresses, the women 
tramping it as though possessed of the land, 
stately with tenderness as was Hagar; the young 
tripping before them garlanded with dog-roses, 
men chanting travel-legends of the tribes; brave, 
thoughtless, as back in those days when the Vo- 
lonté de Dieu and the Red Cross ruled the land. 

A green baize bag filled with school books, the 
cord entangled upon the hook of one of the drags. 
This tells a tale that does not need the pencil 
sketch in the atlas—the big brick building, with 
its desolate rooms and dormitories more cheerless 
than the barracks ; the red brick boundary of a 
garden the boys but seldom catch a glimpse of, 
and then only to see continuation of geometry. 
We can fancy something of the story, the coming 
of the gentle, tender-hearted boy, whose sensi- 
tiveness shames the vulgar coarseness of his new 
companions; the unspoken grief like a crown 
upon the youthful delicacy, yet with it all a man- 
ly bearing before the sneer and jest; the punish- 
ment for a faylt committed by another, brutal 
torture from the hand of the fellow having care 
of these, with iron discipline and but little love, 
adopting a system of treatment which resembles 
the crushing of wax flowers with a sledge-ham- 
mer; then laying up of the child, and whispering 
along the grim corridor, and Vulcan-like minis- 
tering of the housekeeper; followed by the una- 
voidable sending for his friends, and the suavi- 
ty of the brute; the kneeling of the father by the 
death-bed of his slain darling, from whom never 
a reproach had fallen; the taking away of his 
books with intention to treasure them, but mem- 
ory of all causing them to take form of weapons 
of a barren deadliness, and—these were hurled 
to their fitting end. 

The moon emerges from a cloud and silvers 
the gray stone and the great buildings stretching 
either side of the river; the distant masts and 
the net of rigging come clear to the view; more 
spires stand in relief than will be seen from any 
other site in the world; the throb of the city 
heard from afar tells of the town that never 
sleeps. From below the arches sounds a ringing 
of pick and axe as though the Titans were attack- 
ing the stronghold of Saturn. It is a study of 
contrasts. 

They have come upon a halberd, stained and 
blunted, and from contour of the blade it be- 
speaks the period of the Huguenots; a merci- 
less-looking axe of Genevese formation, a relic 


32 


that has done sorry work in the crimson days. 
Tush! Take it yonder, and present it to the 
warder of the Tower—it may join its kindred. 

By the smiles of satisfaction and the glisten- 
ing in the moonbeams while weighed upon the 
fingers, we judge that gems have been discover- 
ed; some strings of lustrous stones thrown hither 
by a wretched, close-pressed thief. Watches, and 
chains, and bracelets, and innumerable pendants, 
with a hundred gorgeous decorations. Place 
these aside, subject to the pleasure of her Majes- 
ty, who, of course, will hear of these strange 
explorations. People are getting about. Humph- 
rey’s Warehouses and Fenning’s Wharf—the 
block standing where the fire raged—and docks 
along the Tooley line, Barclay’s area, the Billings- 
gate stages, the piers and stairs, the Custom- 
house pavement, and the Old Swan frontage, are 
dotted with spectators, who wonder what the 
corporation are up to now. Opinions are divided 
upon the why and wherefore of this odd commo- 
tion, some thinking the enemy are sailing up the 
Thames, and others that science or the Telegraph 
and Herald are looking for the source. One par- 
ty will have it the sluices are disorderly, another 
connects it with the widening of London Bridge, 
and others, again, think it a malicious scheme to 
fire the river. 

A sheen of light is on the dripping vegetation 
of the banks, upon piles and planks and girders, 
and the lanterns gleam on the sides, colored like 
savannas under fretting of the fire-flies, until 
they resemble a pageantry of some new mytholo- 
gy. But they are raising a form with infinite 
care, disclosing a face with its lifeless sculpture, 
so calm a wonder of cold beauty, that insensibly: 
we are won, and say, ¢dés would have been our 
friend; and we bare the head before the repose 
and serene tranquillity, quietly passionate as the 
silent poetry on some Roman cameo; one of 
those faces which speak an out-living music and 
a far-seeing hope, and that dwells upon the mem- 
ory forever. 

It is a curious record of findings. They have 
an old tea-chest on the barrow, a memento of 
King William Street, no doubt, and weird are the 
fine arts from the celestial point of view. What 
cunning hand of Pekin, Nankin, Canton, Hang- 

ow, or Tien-Tsin drew the loveliness hereon, or 

id it start from Hoxton, where ’tis said the tea- 
chests are abundant in creation? A menagerie 
of dragons and red-winged vicious plaintiffs in 
some suit with goblin mandarins, the barbarous 
show before a pig-tailed court of arabesques, gro- 
tesques, and moresques. 

Something now of greater interest; a slip of 
once gorgeous tapestry, the reflex of work, a 
treasure of the Tuileries. Dainty fingers of the 
Duchesse de Berri may have wrought this silken 
idyl, whereon David seems to play before the 
King of Sicily, while young Italy or Israel (they 
are all dark alike, and the fishes have nibbled at 
the noses), standing in the terraced background 
all among the scarlet oleanders,‘is-entranced by 
the music, the song, or the harpist’s golden hair. 
The colors have stood exposure well. Take it to 
Sydenham, South Kensington, where you will. 

What genius of buffoonery did these striped 
pairs of pantaloons belong to? What order of 
troubadours of the expressive minstrelsy, with ex- 
cess of allegretto scherzando ? 


Heads are bent over a porte-monnaie. It bears | 


‘A MODERN MINISTER. 
‘a titled name. The gold of the clasp is haugh- 


tily crested. Those of us who recall the tragic 
history of the fall of its youthful owner handle it 
with a species of awe, and we who knew and 
loved him in University days, when the glory of 
chestnut curls was fairer than aught on earth, 
and the frank face had no compeer, we beg for 
it. It will be to us as his voice, heard again 
after the long sad silence. The Antoinette-like, 
splendid mother, who has dropped his name as 
an acquaintance, who long since forfeited the 
right of recollection, and who yet, we think, weeps 
scalding tears in privacy, may care to see this. 
She is more severely august than ever in public, 
scathing commiseration before it dares to intrude 

itself. | 

A small case comes next, and upon opening it 
we are surprised to see a chalice, a flagon, a shell, 
and stole and cassock. This may be sacrilege; 
or is some mystery of a changed life laid bare? 

Here is an old canister that has stored ginger- 
bread for a generation, and at all the fairs and 
races. We can see the white cloth and its decked 
retinue ; and what an ironical little gilt court it 
is upon the stand, and how warmly it caricatures 
society. The glitter peels, and the greatness 
crumbles; the cold, methodical, sweet-toothed 
dealer in sarcasm seated on the tub, caring little 
for the world or its institutions, so the weather 
hold and the palate long for treacle, has had 
much experience in the gingerbread way, and 
has seen many ups and downs and roundabouts. 
She lives with the girl loosening those brandy- 
balls, in the hooped cart yonder; they know a 
deal of geography between them—more than we 
who have learned of maps and charts. They 
manage the business, and so well, the girl may 
one day be set up in a shop with a front to it— 
they talk of that sometimes while the child is 
cleaning down the bony steed. They have no 
friends, and want none; see the same sunburned 
faces up hill and down dale all summer-time; 
the same housewives, when in winter they change 
to the cart with brooms and rugs and eccentric 
wicker-work ; but a nod and a thank ye for serv- 
ice are all the interchange. They are liked, 
though. Strong but silent sympathy exists among 
the rovers. Many a cake is tossed to waif and 
stray on the caravan trail, and the cup of water 
is never refused. They are upon good terms with 
the merchants on travel, and exchange courtesies 
with the doll and rattle store next door, in case 
of paper running short. The slim, dusky child 
knows the trappings will some day come to her— 
the little close house on wheels, with pot and pan 
and tub, the coarse brown sugar and flour, with 
such else as may be in the locker when the old 
lady is called away above the gingerbread, and 
she preserves a dignity at once graceful and be- 
coming, which is often necessary up there on the 
heath. We, with our exquisite essences and ele- 
gant niceties, think it a jest when told the girl is 
kept in tether closer than if she were at some 
fashionable boarding-school—an excellent jest, no 
doubt. This old tin canister might improve upon 
it. 

A quaint unwieldy horse-pistol has turned up, 
looking strangely massive beside the machine- 
wrought revolvers of Colonel Colt. Many a fray 
upon the highway has this made crimson, and 
it would be interesting to know by whose notori- 
ous hand. Did it figure or disfigure in the Rye 


<4 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


House Plot, in the affair of Captain Porteous, or 
did it once belong to Smuggler Wilson, who, ex- 
ecuted at Tyburn, came to life under the agree- 


_ able operation of dissection? Eugene Aram may 


have pocketed it with books and manuscript, or 
Earl] Ferrers have herewith closed account with 
his just steward. Lord Gordon perhaps used it 
in the riot days, or Hatfield fired at George III. 
Was it Parker’s, the mutineer of the Nore, or did 
Bellingham with this assassinate the Prime Min- 
ister? Did Barnett wound Miss Kelly of Covent 
Garden Theatre by its means, or was it the pet 
plaything of Corder, Burke, or Greenacre? In the 
hands of Daniel Good or Bloomfield Rush this may 
have gained no enviable distinction ; or Manning 
may have contrived to scare more. old dames than 
ever did his Highness George, Prince Regent. 
The unsightly weapon is venerable enough to 
have served the entire calendar. As the men 
transport it to Newgate, they handle it with the 
awe entertained by the public for the classical. 
Softly now. Replace the drabbled finery and 
smooth the dishevelled hair. We had a little 
sister, and these twain were of a sex. Be gentle 
with the tricky ornament—our little sister loved 
her beads, blue bows, and simple lace. How 
cold are the poor iittle feet, and the spun silk 
stockings all dirt and grime! our sister had her 
worked and warmed and perfumed slippers. 
This hat was a tasteful contrivance once, but 
the ostrich plume has long ceased -to wear the 
beauty of a feather. Our little sister lamented 
if she was but caught in one shower of rain; 
and now fancy this washing up and down the 
dire canal that floateth to eternity, the strong 
buffeting of brutal eddies and fierce uniting of 
vagrant spars. Conceive the long waste course 
where no harbor and no haven is, the chill deso- 
lateness of steering forever and forever, and still 
no progress; the terrific storms of winter beat- 
ing upon the defenseless face, snows sinking to 
the bosom that sheltered roses, white hands out- 
stretched for saving, for sympathy, but swept 
back by the hurried ploughing of boats freighted 
with girls. O grim saturnalia of life! Realize 
the exposed beauty of limbs sliding by the clam- 


iy piers of the bridges, seeking to coil along the 


icy ledges of the bank. These are the fair pro- 
portions that curled and nestled upon down; and 
our little sister had sleepless nights even thus, 
thinking of such as compose the poetics and 
heroics of our little sisters. One can read this 
life through all its chapters; all the whirl and 
the waltz with sin, all the sickness of pleasure 
that vanished as a dream. A fair doll’s face and 
the deep, old-fashioned flax of the hair, drooping 
eyes, liquid and coy, and glittering like the liz- 
ard’s in the dead of night when staid folks sleep, 
and the wonderful youth that never aged with 
all the waltzing; we see her every where, ever 
with fresh companions, always in silk attire: 
upon Brighton Pier, at Scarborough September 
races, on Durdham downs, on the Tunbridge 
pantiles, at Cowes regatta, at October meets by 
Leamington, and on Cheltenham’s promenade ; 
at Devon’s Porto Ferrajo, and upon the Duke’s 
Drive, Buxton; on the Lees, Folkestone, at a 
Milsom Street morning in Bath, an archery party 
at Aberystwith, the races on L’Ancresse Com- 
mon, Guernsey; or the assembly-rooms, I\fra- 
combe. During an evening stroll on Southsea 
sward to military music; amid languor of the 
VoL, 11.—C 


33 


piney Bournemouth air; boating round Beachy 
Head with starlight upon Eastbourne; in the lux- 
urious drives about St. Leonard’s; routs, ball- 
rooms, drives, promenades, or the sumptuous 
apartments of great hotels found in Bradshaw’s 
appendix, and—this. Lay the head giddy so oft 
with care, cross the hands that trifled with play- 
things from cradledom with reverence, reject the 
opportunity for sneering comment, and murmur 
“peace” above the poor remains. Butterfly 
wings of dead turquois used to rest resplen- 
dent upon these matted tresses where river-weed 
is now the coiffure, and the tiny pockets where 
minnows are caught were the receptacles for gold 
without number and without limit, and yet—this. 

All the time of our reverie the workmen have 
been: hoisting bales and packages; not, as we 
think, from the merchantman sunk here, but 
part of the devastation of the terrible tide and 
gale of January, 1767, when the storage of cel- 
lars and basements, of vaults and warehouses, 
was all washed away. Tides of that day defied 
all the reasoning of the Keplers and Newtons. 

They raise an old man of sharp and unpleasing 
countenance ; they are abrupt in their movements 
as though not impressed by their charge. He is 
gray as a badger, with a fist doubled as in his 
last gasp he would have smote the river in its 
face. All his days he lived in dread—the dread 
of getting wet. Important engagements were 
negatived if it happened to rain; at hotels he 
would strip off the sheets and sleep between 
blankets ; he always superintended airing of his 
linen, and was unmarried lest the wife should be 
insufficiently particular. When the accident hap- 
pened, the first and only time he ever trusted 
himself upon the water, it was looked upon as a 
retribution. His leap from a gangway fell short 
of the length, and by the adjustment of natural 
order governing our prejudices he came to tus- 
sle with the element he had dreaded all his life 
through. , 

Oh, it was a weird phantasy, this conjuring up 
of the dead down by London Bridge, this recall- 
ing of the shades whom the waters had blotted 
out from the scroll of life! And often the Min- 


ister shuddered while the pageant passed, his 


mind echoing the poet’s line, 
‘‘ And can the sea give up its dead ?” 


it was this and not the chill contact with the 
gray old bridge that caused him quivering of the 
lip. 

iis vigil was well-nigh over, yet not until the 
dawn would the meed of fascination be fulfilled. 
He had often walked at these hours, by dense 
streams meandering through meadows where 
all the trees were hung with sable and all the 
land was dusk; the utter solitude, the solemn 
contrast with the scenes of daylight, magnificent 
with color, tuneful with life’s orchestra, possessed 
strange charm for him; and in sleeping cities, 
where the current rippled sluggishly through low 
arches, and laved black walls of warehouses ; 
and by silent mills, where ghostly soundings, the 
drip, drip of clinging weed, or the creaking of 
slack timber, burdened the hush, and set the 
depth quivering; and by shadowy locks, that 
stemmed hard floods, and left narrow bridging 
ledges whereon to stand and trace some star, 
enmeshed in abysmal eddies. It all had curious 
charm for him, 


34 A MODERN 


But see, they lift with reverence a fragile form 
—some poor man’s daughter. Playing upon the 
stone steps the girl fell in. A score of jackets 
were doffed in a trice, all the stubborn bravery 
of untutored Saxons stirred by one impulse; but 
it was the father took the mighty leap, beast-like, 
blind, conscious only of the peril of his darling, 
sublime, daring, maddened, panting in fierce ex- 
tremity; his stricken gaze on the little face low 
in the morning sunlight, more beautiful than 
ever. And both were lost. 

Long corridor of lifeless beauty is this bottom 
of the world’s chief river. Fair limbs sway with 
the ebb and flow, faces upturn as watching those 
who often lean over and look down, with so 
much of thought, so much of sadness, and thus 
the living and the dead confront*through all the 
ages, while the former ever join the ranks of the 
vast company of the silent. 

_ We have aroused a great commotion here, but 
the long light line eastward dispels much of the 
horror, Already the shadowy span of the arches 
is taking color and form—those delights of the 
artist’s eye; the spectral creations of our quest 
vanish, softly and silently as they appeared ; one 
by one our helpers and associates leave the place 
for distant homes; majestically the waters roll 
to mingle in their first embrace below the dawn ; 
the forest of shipping begins to tint, drab, brown, 
black, gray; here and there a scarlet cap of some 
boatman in relief from the blanched sails and 
trellis of rigging. There is noise above the 
bridge; busy London is alert, and the country 
vehicles are rolling in; early workmen, and those 
who have beén out all night, students of the city’s 
most interesting phase, the first of the hours of 
the morning; these are straggling past, and they 
gaze upon the man still leaning by the stone re- 
cess with a measure of pity. White upon the 
sky is changing to pink, and the moist ledge 
strings tiny chains of rubies; a great spider has 
woven her web between the stone-work, and she 
sits glowering upon her work in a rugged but dry 
corner, unable to comprehend the gathering of 
pendants of the river mist upon such slender 
work as hers. Fires are glimmering from one 
and another of the barges, smoke curls about 
the narrow shafts, men blue-jerkined, sturdy, 
sullen, with short pipes, appear on the coal-black- 
ened decks ; fish-freighted luggers toil in a body 
for the Billingsgate wharf; cabs roll past hasten- 
ing to the railway, luggage built high above, half- 
sleepy families within; these look wonderingly 
and with sympathy upon him. Little ones wave 
hands with charming smiles, the delicate tints of 
the advancing sunlight flushing their flower-like 
faces—and what contrast to his grave and gray 
studies of the solemn hours! All the panorama 
of the river-side assumes clearness of picture. 
The Tower rises in relief from the cradle of 
color. London and St. Katherine’s Docks, the 
Customs, St. Olave’s Church, the wharves, the 
Southeastern Terminus, and Rotherhithe Church, 
come forth on the clear perspective, the eye 
- finally resting upon the imperial cupola of St. 
Paul’s. Upon the bridge the people thicken ; 
young men and maidens going to their work, or 
bound for the railways. It is the stream of life 
and of youth, and the Minister turns from the 
ancient study to the fresh contemplation of the 
dawn upon this, the symbol of time. Where 
childhood is, with the charm of its wooing, sci- 


MINISTER. 


ence and learning and deadness of days fade 
away, with the ebb and the flow and the echo of 
dirge. Pzean of awakened life has chimed in the 
Dawn; he gives all his heart to beauty as it 
lives, beyond the Night, above the Thames, and 


in the Dawn. 


Thoughtfully the Minister walked away from 
one of those strange night musings it was his 
fancy now and then to entertain. Homeward, 
where his household, but just stirring, looked 
without wonderment, ay, and with loving respect, 
upon that tired wanderer. Such early entrance 
was familiar to them; they knew that many a 
time and oft he passed the night beside the sick 
or troubled. He was so gentle with his servants, 
so courteous and tolerant, treating them with so 
supreme a measure of kind yet firm control, ad- 
vantage was never taken in either of his houses 
—and there were three establishments to super- 
vise. In his absence as in his presence duty was 
paramount—an almost unique experience, and 
one but too rare. Of a truth the members of his 
households experienced as devoted a regard, as 
legitimate an esteem, as did those people to whom 
he ministered, the majority of whom blessed his 
very name. And yet there were those abroad 
actually canvassing the man’s morality, propriety, 
decorum, discreetness, virtue, and the rest; as 
though this monarch, crowned and diademed, 
should wear a white card with Moral—Proper— 
Decorous—Discreet—and Virtuous thereon, for 
every fool to stare at. 

As it happened, he did not controvert any one 
of these inestimable qualities, and did live to the 
letter of their ethics, and considerably beyond 
the letter; but he was the last man on earth to 
blazon this forth, and he would never stand up 
in a self-constituted court of gossips and declare 
he was this, or plead he was the other; although 
feeling the faintest breath of aspersion upon his 
honor as only one of so fine a calibre does feel; 
and he would rather face the ruffianly foot-pad’s 
blow upon the temples than the back-handed 
stab of the scandalist. 

However, he did not permit this to influence 
any work in which he might be engaged; he did 
the work, and thought about it afterward; and if 
there happened to be an outline here or there that 
the vulgar might fill in with scarlet if so minded, 
well, he just left them to fill it in, and only 
thought with that sad tenderness of his how that 
they might, perhaps, have been better engaged. 

If Westley Garland had more regard for one 
Scriptural text than another, it was for “Touch 
not the unclean thing;” and immeasurably the 
most unclean thing in the world to him was scan- 
dal; so he left it to take care of itself, or to be 
cared for by those professing an interest therein. 

Mr. Garland’s housekeeper in town was a kindly 
woman, of dignified bearing, amicable and com- 
posed, with a placid smile about the mouth, and 
a soft clear light within the eyes. She was look- 
ing peacefully for the beyond whither had gone 
her darlings, husband and son, a boy mown down 
in the splendor of his flower-time. It had been 
a sore period with her, nigh to the portals of a 
bitterness more terrible even than despair, when 
she heard this man preach; and what a message! 
Thrilled, shaken, broken again, but by other 
weapons; moved, subdued utterly, and prostrate. 
This was the time of weakness, but it was better 
than that benumbed bitterness beyond despair. 


"2 
‘ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


And again she went to hear him, bore up through 
passage of a mighty crowd, struggling as for dear 
life with those as eager to hear further of the 
message, and she heard. This time how comfort- 
ing! It seemed to cover over, close up, heal gen- 
tly, those wounds and bruises: weak still, but 
comforted, and comfort is strength. She went 
again, and it was the balance of the two discourses. 
Surely the man must know that some such poor 
one was there present; she could not understand 
it; but what new life it implanted within her, what 
glorious hope! She was reanimate; was, if not 
happy—that came later—at least calm, and calm- 
ness is victory; she was at peace. And somehow 
he heard she was in trouble, as he heard daily of 
one or another; and she being of too fragile 
courage to come to him, he went to her, and was 
moved by sympathy, for she was a gentlewoman, 
and he thought of one placed much as she. He 
resolved to find her some home elsewhere, and 
needing one to undertake it, offered her the man- 
agement of his house in town. . This was the 
housekeeper; and when Westley Garland led the 
lonely boy*to such kind reception, knowing how 
it would give joy to both, who can describe the 
hungry tenderness with which she first viewed 
his beauty, then gave him her mother-hand, while 
tears rushed to the eyes. But the Minister had 
gone ere that; his was the exquisite tact which 
calculates the moment to withdraw. Now under- 
stand this praise of Westley Garland is not with 
view to exalting him as some Admirable Crichton ; 
he was simply full of imperfection, and he knew 
it; full of inequalities; not in the least an im- 
possible order of being. Oh, far too human! 
But all the imperfection and all the inequality 
were counterbalanced by that charm of disposition, 
grace of manner, tenderness of feeling, sensitive- 
ness of perception, Christian rule of life, and dis- 
cretion of conduct we dwellon. Take particular 
heed to the last, for it is just the point his friends 
are trying to make elastic, as though, this im- 
perilled, all the rest would not tumble about his 
ears like a house of cards. 

Thus all smiled upon this visit to the house of 
the Minister, and when Arthur returned to Dr. 
Nichols’s, it was with far happier feelings, and 
with the thoughts of a new friend and of the kind 
woman who had so unhesitatingly taken the for- 
lorn one to her heart. He said nothing of it all, 
but the doctor and Mrs. Nichols noticed it ; little, 
indeed, escaped their notice; and the good doctor 
asked : ‘ 

“Have you altered your mind, my boy, about 
leaving us? Or do you still wish to do so?” 

“T still wish to, Sir. I shall feel sorry to leave 
you for all your kindness, but I am thinking of 
the future, and may as well be learning some- 
thing of use hereafter.” 

“Yes, I think you are right,” said the doctor, 
kindly. “approve the courage prompting your 
reply.” 

And thus began and ended a new era in the 
life of our boy. First there had been the wild, 
unfettered, yet beautifully tutored period when 
the great downs presented instruction as a book, 
and the stretch of garden was significant of 
knowledge as a school-room; but, alas! the loving 
teacher was gone. Then followed a short, dream- 
like time in the country house, when his mind was 


busy weaving spells and shedding a halo about a_ 
young girlfriend. Next the life in town, with its _ 


385 


curious episodes and grave routine of work. Then 
the unknown—that to come, ever blended with 
the mystical and overshadowed by a roseate hope. 

Mark the wild white-rose trees in a garden, how 
one day they appear spiked all over with star- 
like buds wrapped in their green incasing—what 
promise of the coming glory, and what content 
one may experience, so perfect is the present 
beauty! But lo! another day or two, and they 
have opened to delicate small blossoms with 
maiden fragrance bursting from their hearts, and 
the palest of blushes struggling up from each as 
timid of encountering the stranger gaze; and 
such are more prized, but—the little buds are 
unforgotten. Another day or two and it is all a 
crowded mass of broad white bloom; there is a 
sea of crisp white leaves curling lovingly one to- 
ward another; there are whole winds of gentle 
perfume, slumbering kisses that nestle down be- 
tween the white flower and the leaf; there is a 
crush of dazzling blossom and an amazing glow 
of snowy luxury. It is all wondrously beautiful, 
and this is more prized than all: but the little 
buds—so far away though now they seem—are 
still unforgotten. The day comes when all the 
bloom lies thick upon the ground, when the 
beauty is so lavish it is worthless; and until then 
the youth-time of the flower lives on. 

An early life is the bud, an embodied aspira- 
tion, the trial of strength upon the wing which 
shall regulate the after-flight. A first poem is 
ingenuous; the last responsible. In the first is 
the concentre of hope, the soul’s loving invitation 
to immortality, the nucleus of faith; in the last 
it is a battle-piece in the arena of ability, skill, 
and learning. 

Whatever might be before the boy, the past 
would be valuable, as a past always is, seeing 
that it builds and shapes and schools and disci- 
plines and prepares for any after-culture; and if 
no culture, then for that greater life and higher 
thought than even culture brings. 

His heart had been full of beautiful aspiration 
for long. The Minister just put these into regu- 
lation, and commenced the shaping of that which 
Browning says is alone worth study—a human 
soul. 

eee 


CHAPTER V. 


A DREAM IN MARBLE. 


Ir was down in the London Directory: 
GREVILLE LOVELACE, SCULPTOR. 


It was a plain, unassuming-looking house, in a 
genteel square, West. - ; 

He was a shaggy, pale, stalwart man, of rest- 
less movement, with a splendid face, and the 
brow of an idealist and poet. 

Artist and poet both, in colorless marble. 

Every one knew him by sight, pronounced 


'him eccentric, and stared, as is the custom of 


the country. 

His windows were admired nevertheless, His 
flowers and ferns, and lace, and bijou elegancies 
brought from Florence, were of a type of taste 
altogether unconventional. , He had the credit of 
it all, for they knew there was no Mrs. Lovelace 
in the background. They thought that rather a 
pity, as he gave them the idea of a man who re- 
quired taking care of. Within, he had a superb 


36 


house, and people were satisfied that he lived the 
life of the dog in the manger. 

Somewhere in the house, it was known, was 
an atelier, filled with such studies as duchesses 
raved about and schemed but generally failed to 
secure, for Greville Lovelace chiselled forylove, 
not wealth, of which he had abundance ; nor fame, 
which he rated at the price of cheap Champagne. 

Yes, eccentric, the gossips thought; of an is- 
olated turn of mind; and as the spirit.of dwell- 
ing apart is one of dead fashion, the tea-table 
verdict. resolved itself “an undoubted genius, 
but peculiar.” 

Society saw Mr. Lovelace in the season at two 
or three leading houses where one meets every 
body; but he infinitely preferred not going out 
at all, while people calling to see him troubled 
him more than a little. Upon certain counts Mr. 
Lovelace was a lion, and every body made a point 
of sending him the tiny perfumed compliment, 
although a refusal was invariably the result. 
Still, when the mood took him, Mr. Lovelace, 
sculptor, strolled through the rooms once, with a 
bow here, a gracious smile there, and the never- 
absent composure more becoming than a coronet. 

He had written a volume of poems—rather 
good, somebody said; another body said there 
was nothing in it; the majority of people could 
not understand it. One coterie searched indus- 
triously for its political significance: he hated 
politics like the pest. An old maiden lady, 
whose one living hope it was to have her weird 
curls reproduced in stone, startled her intimate 
friends by pronouncing the book “‘a revelation.” 
What with these and the critics—who, although 
he had never sent out a copy, reviewed the work, 
and politely declared the writer mad as poor 
Blake—Mr. Lovelace rather regretted having 
printed those choice, chaste thoughts. He re- 
called every copy from the book-shops; went out 
in an old brown coat, and bought up his own 
books with indefatigable perseverance; locked 
them all in a strong cupboard, and thenceforth 
avoided that track like a snake’s nest. 

He had spent twenty years upon that book, 
shaping, moulding, making it sculpturesque, un- 
til, when it became so ideal it even pleased his 
exquisite taste, he permitted the launch; and 
then to hear the chatter at the distance over the 
five minutes’ reading, and the grotesque decision 
upon his idyls dead and unknown! 

This man had been so long softening stone to 
pathos he was of finer marl himself, heartward— 
one of the sensitive sort, whom the brusque 
school would call a fool. He lived a double life 
—one of fine breeding and true courtesy, as an 
English gentleman; the. other, half music, half 
poetry; alone with his ideals in the cold and 
stately world of stone. 

More enthusiastic men, with souls like boiling 
kettles, had rushed off to Rome and Athens, 
while he was behind and alone in the dull square, 
the dim, shadow-wreathed studio, the quiet house 
where only the old housekeeper and the grave 
servants made cat-like echoes. He did not envy 
the enthusiasts ; he did not care. Cities were a 
bore to him, the travelling world a menagerie. 
In his younger days he had travelled, but seen 
little in any thing save sham; had returned to his 
lifeless progeny more in love with their white- 
limbed rhythm, and passionless, exquisite faces, 
than ever. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


People had plotted finely to obtain the entrée 
to his studio, but he was rather nice in this mat- 
ter, and, without being rude, contrived to decline 
the honor of these little nose-poking explora- 
tions, so they turned to and called him “a Bear,” 
Other epithets also in plenty. Young ladies, sen- 
timentally inclined, named him Phidias, and would 
have eaten the chips from the rich man’s chisel. 
Elderly ladies called him Pygmalion, and twined 
their lithe angles caressingly as, thinking of the 
sweet conceit of their shapeliness in marble, they 
tumbled into bed. He was Zanoni, Manfred, Aram, 
and, when not at home to visitors, Lucifer. 

His composure under all this—for somehow it 
all came back to him—was characteristic ; some- 
times a half-contemptuous smile and low word 

-to the fairest of his creations, that was all; and 
still keeping to the work, feature by feature and 
limb by limb, the dazzling studies crowded the 
little gallery, until it became difficult to pass 
without hurting the dignity of one or another of 
them. Dgssetta 

In the atelier he was peculiar also. The walls 
were draped with the richest, blackest velvet; his 
figures reposed upon the same dense sable; folds 
of it formed the background to others; the floor 
was of black glazed tiles; such a veritable black 
and white world never was seen. The foil to the 
splendid purity of his family was perfect. He 
did all this innocently, artistically; with never 
a descent from the loftiest standard of purity, 
from snow-drop time to latest roses. 

Where we should have been upon the fidget, 
this insensible old Greek was stony as the rest. 
Always in the midst of the idealized human, it 
was no more to him than to an anatomical stu- 
dent in the weird museum at Berlin. One day 
Greville Lovelace was taken by surprise. A new 
servant-girl admitted a gaunt matron with a tribe 
of as gaunt fledgelings—they should have been 
taken to the drawing-room. Two fainted, and 
the mother accused the man, in his own studio, 
of impropriety. The same girl was doomed to 
commit error of judgment. Upon another occa- 
sion she admitted a bluff young farmer, who mis- 
took our friend for a stone-mason, and wanted a 
winged dairy-maid for Kensal Green. Another 
time Mr. Lovelace came upon this domestic gen- 
ius dusting down the harem with a feather broom, 
and the delicate hand of a Titan. 

Take it altogether, the gentleman sculptor did 
not love his race, and some members he cordial- 
ly hated. It could not be helped, but so it. was, 
What religion would one expect of a man who 
shuts himself up like a toad in a rock? 

His tenderness was wonderful nevertheless, 
and his charity exceeded the tenderness. The 
poor, the sick, the sorrowing, and those having 
no friends in all the wide waste of faces, these 
could testify to that we need not make public, 
since he desired the death of each good act the 
moment born. ; 

All one night he had sat with the old mother 
of the man from whom he bought his stone, 
bought it dear, for there was a struggle to live 
in the small house by the marble yard; they.of 
the quarries monopolizing the trade. The man 
was away in the stone country when Lovelace 
called, and his mother taken ill since he went, 
the girl said. The old lady lay a-moaning 
for her son when the sculptor entered, and tak- 
ing the hand, as cold but so different to those of 


a 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


his usual handling, he spoke soothingly and with 
more than the tenderness of sonship. He had 
once an old mother himself, before his fossil 
days. 

Another time he saw an old man drop at a 
crossing from hunger, fatigue, or something, 
quite one of the vulgar ailments, and the civil- 
ized crowd were kicking him aside pending re- 
moval by the police. With one of his great, 
serious strides, however, he was by, had the un- 
fortunate man lifted to his carriage, and drove to 
a quiet, clean lodging, where he kept the old man 
until he was quite restored. 

_ These acts were talked of, they lived their lit- 
tle day, and died under the great London sky, 
remembered least of all by him. 

People next door thought Mr. Lovelace might 
have walked occasionally in the back garden. 
They would have ogled him from behind the 
dimity, and have stared as they stared on Sun- 
days at the bear. But the anchorite never stirred 
out there; he knew each of the prim windows 
with its setting of pompons represented that use- 
ful but to him singularly objectionable article— 
the human eye. 

People either side were not in the least curious, 
but would have just liked to know whether he 
locked his tea-caddy, where his washing was 
done, what were the antecedents of his house- 
keeper, was there a crest on the plate or simply 
initials, were his manners morose, did he keep a 
cat, had he ever been engaged, was he addicted 
to intemperance, and other highly important so- 
cial items of which calendar is kept on all sides 
of us. The girls were set to do it over the broom- 
sticks, but making no progress went in-doors, and 
painted him very black indeed. 

And the subject of it all, adamant. Sublime 
in the dim and dreamy atelier, over a nostril that 
breathed fire below the snow, a mouth that 
wreathed like the innermost curve of the water- 
lily. 

And the solicitous—were not interested, but he 
really ought to marry. He would soon be cured 
of all that (the traits as retailed). . 

One day an advertisement appeared in the 
papers: 

O PARENTS AND GUARDIANS.—A refined and 

well-educated youth of unexceptionable respecta- 
bility can be received in the house of a gentleman sculp- 
tor as apprentice. No premium required. Apply per- 


_ sonally at 27 Monmouth Road, Islington, between the 
hours of eleven and one on Tuesday next. 


The sculptor at times experienced a great yearn- 
ing for something the eye could rest upon, when 
lifted from the wintry beauty of the atelier, some- 
thing that should be warm and sunny, of equal 
beauty if that could be, but the beauty of living 
and loving youth; some other music than the 
endless majesty of the ring of steel on stone—a 
voice youthful and sweet, attuned to the devotion 
of eye. Was this to be found, he wondered. 
With his fine artist-sense, beauty only of the 
highest order, and grace to parallel that beauty, 
dare hope for welcome in the sacred precincts 
of that chamber. For gentleness he would have 
had a girl, made boy by garb; but this in London 
squares is delicate, and he hoped to find one as 
fair, thrice constant, among the flower-like of his 
sex. 

When Mr. Lovelace arrived at Islington, where 
he had arranged to meet the applicants, an unex- 


37 


pected reception awaited him. It seemed, indeed, 
as though the parents and guardians of London 
had united to offer him ovation. The hospitality 
of the people of the house had been sorely taxed, 
and refined youth were stowed away with the 
dams in every niche but the coal-hole. Spite 
of which the review was of the plain school, 
mediocrity was upon the face of it. An ordinary 
man might have picked from this ordinary lot and 
returned thanks, but, fastidious to a point, the art- 
ist’s whole soul rebelled at the outrage, the bare 
thought offended his esthetics of beauty. He 
disliked a narrow brow in boyhood, and differed 
upon principle from socket-eyes. Warm-colored 
hair was an aversion, and freckles, pimples, and 
such small fry significant as a board with ‘No 
Trespassing :”’ as though he would find the lily 
purity of his own! He affected the courtesy of 
inspecting the population, and came off the 
ground with ghastly recollections. One had a 
cast in the eye, the second a twitch at the 
trousers, another a horrible boldness of look that 
would have played the dickens in the studio. If 
the nose was right, it was red; and if the mouth 
was red, it was cavernous. Here the hands were 
coarse and thick, there the ears overlapped upon 
elephant plan. A charming smile was broken to 
bits of its sunshine by irregular teeth. Where 
there was beauty there was no refinement, and 
gentle manners were accompanied by ornament 
that would have failed of success at the Masque 
of Venice. He dismissed the lot, paid the ex- 
penses of such as had come long distances—and 
it was astonishing how many lived in the country 
—and departed, with the conviction that adver- 
tising was humbug. The assembly retreated like 
out-patients from a hospital. 

Now comes the stone-merchant with whom he 
dealt upon the scene—with diffidence. He knew 
a gentle lad—the best boy of his Sunday-school 
—in service as a doctor’s page, but who would be 
glad to change the life; and, above all, for this, 
his father having been a sculptor, and the boy’s 
thoughts having long turned in the direction of 
the art. He believed Mr. Lovelace would be very 
pleased, and he was sure the boy was apt and 
willing. Should he send to him, that it might be 
seen if any thing could be done? 

The sculptor had narrated his experience and 
his want, and the kind and grateful man had 
heard his patron’s story without a smile. He 
felt for him in the majestic loneliness, and re- 
volved a plan or two, but came back to his 
scholar with the fair young face and gentle man- 
ners. He fancied it possible he might suit, hav- 
ing been so liked wherever he had lived. 

Mr. Lovelace heard it all, and willingly assent- 
ed to see the lad. But at home he smiled the 
quiet smile. He had certainly been interested by 
the photograph the mason had shown him—liked 
the face very well; but then, thought he, the 
smile fading, boys change so, it is very likely aft- 
er all there will be no resemblance. He took 
nothing upon hearsay, least of all from the prej- 
udiced for or against; and not to do the child in- 
justice, by forming any sort of expectation—more 
likely than not to be disappointed—he just for- 
got all about it; sunk all such modern trifling in 
the eternal, in the Greek; lost it in the flowing 
curves of the arabesques ; merged it in reverie over 
his friend Gibson’s “ Cupid and Psyche,” of which 
the Art Journal had said, in 1849, “The divine, 


38 A MODERN MINISTER. 


ardent boy—the tender, innocent girl, not yet 
translated to the heaven she bought so dearly” 
—and shortly afterward turned from his tapping 
with tiny mallet and chisel, at sound of a little 
cough, to where there stood blushing at the 
threshold the original of the picture, cap in hand 
and hesitating; for the domestic, even yet un- 
tamed, had failed to announce the pretty-headed 
stranger. He stood there like a prince at bay 
in a fairy story, yet melting to capitulate; the 
sculptor enjoying the delicious confusion with all 
his mind on rack how to turn it to account. 

Perhaps he had looked up rather indifferently, 
prepared for another of the young of the Huns, and 
this had come as a surprise, when his large, piere- 
ing eyes went swift from the white to the face like 
a flower, with the raven velvet for a frame and a 
foil. Its fresh young beauty and blushes took 
him all by storm, and his artist-soul gave in at 
once. He spoke kindly and gently as the boy 
came forward with that deference so engaging in 
the young, with quick perception taking to the 
man whom, albeit he thought him king-like, he 
was not so very much afraid of after all; and 
they were friends forthwith. 

Then, in spite of his nicety, Greville Lovelace 
was not so hard to please. Nay, but this boy 
seemed all that the most exacting of idealists 
could have yearned for. We can not account for 
the greater beauty of this than other boys, unless 
it was that the mother—herself a sculptor’s wife 
and all her days gazing on the Greek—had im- 
bibed so much of its beauty that this sequel was 
natural. Anyway, there he was, and Lovelace 
quivered lest he had come to say he would not 
like a sculptor’s life. Thus do we plague our- 
selves delightfully. He was carelessly brushing 
aside the chips and flakes, and dallying with the 
chisel—sole bit of lustre in the grewsome cham- 
ber. 

““So, Sir, you think you would like to be a 
sculptor? You will find it dull, dry work. And 
there are wine and spirit stores your father can 
apprentice you to, or picture shops with some- 
thing ever pleasing to the eye, and the gaudy 
mercers with their silks and velvets and pretty 
girls tripping in and out. It is well to weigh 
these things. You will find it very dull and quiet 
here; and myself—I am no pleasant companion 
—cross and taciturn. You see, I am candid with 

ou.” 

3 He stooped to adjust a fold of velvet, craning 
his ears to catch the answer, and hearing noth- 
ing, looked up stern and frowning. He was en 
déshabille, and very bear-like that morning, with 
the shaggy hair dishevelled, and the coarse gray 
working gown untied at the cord; all was out of 
fashion, and that forbidding frown was very 
chilling. The boy came up to the form of iron, 
side by side with the cold blocks, and laid a 
warm, small hand in his. The sculptor would 
not let it be seen, but he felt thrilled to the heart 
while he clasped the soft texture so confidingly 
intrusted to his keeping. 

‘“‘T have come to stay, if you will have me,” 
the boy said, simply. 

The sculptor led him into another room and 
placed milk and biscuits before his guest, with 
a perfect courtliness that might have amused the 
etiquette-mongers. 

It was a tasteful chamber, bizarre and original, 
with all sorts of gem trifles, and cunning work 


in ivory and alabaster and bronze; with studies 
from or by the great Canova, and some of Flax- 
man’s lovely work, and Westmacott’s sublime 
Greek ‘ Kuphrosyne.” Over the mantel, itself a 
work of wondrous art, forming a plain spotless 
pageant of the glory of the Parthenon Metopes, 
was a portrait in oils of the matchless Dane, 
Thorwaldsen. Upon a tiny table of malachite 
one small bust surnamed the “ Morning Star,” a 
child in terra cotta—one of Christian Rauch’s 
sweet idyls—and two other children by Mrs. 
Thorneycroft upon marqueterie of fabulous value. 
No old paintings, or paintings of any sort for that 
matter, save the Dane’s head above the mantel ; 
no old china, no antique wood-carving or old fur- 
niture, no illumination and excess of elaborate 
ornamental work ; no bric-a-brac, or virtu, or ex- 
quisite Italian craftsmanship. Mr. Lovelace did 
not make these a hobby, and dispensed their 
equivalent among his poor; but all else was so 
good, so chaste, and, for the most part, so classic, 
the absence of the stereotyped modern interior 
was unnoticed. Those bronze “ Hours leading 
the Horses of the Sun” were of infinite beauty, 
and alone transfixed the eye, so much so that the 
well-worn carpet passed unnoticed, and the dingy 
suite of faded splendor (obtained long since to 
please the eye of a heartless Circe, the sole piece 
of his marble. treasures to which had happened 
accident) was pardoned or politely looked over, 
as we can not pardon or politely look over every 
thing. Upon a slender tapering pedestal was a 
vase, graceful as a lily cup, wrought by Cellini’s 
delicate hand, Further, some crude but promis- 
ing work of his own, done in boyhood when a 
student in the Via della Fontanella, and flushed 
with inspiration. He loved the work for old 
time’s sake, the clouds were all so rosy and so 
golden then. Later his heart had been keeping 
rhythm with this colder land; the outcome of 
adherence to art, maybe. 
have felt relieved by a few Cupids and Nymphs, 
or even those Nereids and Tritons Rubens has 
disposed with the shells in his harbor. It is pos- 
sible the owner himself had come to tire of the 
changeless repose and beautiful dignity meeting 
the eye at every turn throughout his house; cer- 
tainly his eye this day rested with ill-disguised 
pleasure upon the curl-pated urchin nibbling at 
the biscuits, not fourteen years at most; and 
there were studies of fourteen centuries: he had 
been living so very much back in the periods, 
He watched the boy’s admiring glance with inter- 
est, first at a magnificent copy of Ghiberti’s bassi- 
relievi which adorn those gates of the Florentine 
Baptistery, of which Michael Angelo said they were 


Perhaps one would - 


worthy to be the gates of Paradise; from this to 


reproductions of Wichmann, the able German; 
to specimens of rare Etruria, and bronzes of Pe- 
rugia ; to one of Hiram Powers’s beauties in stat- 
uary porcelain, and a group by Theed; resting 
finally on Chantrey’s ‘Sleeping Children,” at 
which he stared hard over the milk tumbler. 

Then back to the atelier, and under the fair, 
clear light where his eminence worked, the beau- 
ty came out in finer detail; and the sculptor 
looked about him with a vacant gaze, all the 
consummate art seemed wanting in something, 
seemed suddenly imperfect. It was color, and 
life, and soul. 

And while the man explained the nature of the 
craft and ideals in the stone, the boy walked 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


round with reverent softness, and then asked 
permission to return to apprise the doctor of his 
fortune, promising to be back upon the morrow. 


And the place looked duller, colder, dimmer, when ' 
the boy had gone. The sculptor could not banish | 


from his memory the sweet young face; echo of 
the voice seemed still quivering in and out the 
round white limbs and square white blocks; he 
could not work; and oh! impetuous, inconsist- 
ent, he must follow him. Not straight, but 
roundabout, to Doctor Nichols’s, where he arrived 
first, for young sir had been loitering on the way. 
And the deed was drawn that day, and the blush- 
ing boy was made a sculptor. 

Mr. Lovelace did not set him sweeping up the 
chips or polishing his implements, but took him 
as something dearer—disciple, pupil, friend. Of 
a truth he began thus late to learn the lesson of 
all living—that hearts wll cling, that souls wll 
make idols, other than of stone and i ivory. 

Of course the child loved him—all with whom 
he came in intimate contact did that—and far too 
truthful to conceal his gratitude, the motherless 
boy gave him such wealth of hourly affection, 
Greville was well-nigh beside himself. It was 
new and unexpected, and caught him in tender 
and sensitive chambers, making him captive both 
heart and soul. 

The boy never presumed, never offended; was 
ever respectful, and invariably delicate. 

So the face grew to be a charm in the room, 
and seemed to warm the stately troupe to sym- 

pathy. 

At his work the sculptor would look up’ to 
where the beauty shone within the vista of his 
marble; his eye would wander to the black to 
rest, then back to the beauty again, while a 
proud, pleased, satisfied smile played to. the 
‘thought of the prize he had caught. There was 
much quiet enjoyment derived of the one fact of 
its being so simply his own. No running about 
streets for wanton eyes of stranger girls to rob 
the treasure; nobody ever taking the atelier in 
with the round of morning calls, or if so, the boy 
was sent to another chamber. A jealous guard- 
ian of his fair young charge he became indeed, 
and took right watchful care of this companion 
of his solitude. The boy had no desire to stray ; 
liberty was his, had he cared to take it, but the 
servitude was a very joy, and the life a realized 
fond hope. 

That the education should not falter the guard- 
ian carried it forward, and developed every good 
talent by moral teaching. The classics and the 
charms of history became the pleasant converse 
at the work, and their leisure was devoted to the 
loftiest reading in the languages. It was a dan- 
gerous age, and peculiarly susceptible nature, but 
the mentor steered with admirable discretion, and 
all his pains bade fair to mould a character of 
inestimable qualities. One trait alone was worthy 
of the super-tact bestowed—the whole-hearted, 
undivided love it yielded. This was a never-end- 
ing charm; the love was a beautiful devotion. 

The sculptor’s life is the life of still passion. 
The art-shaping poetry of marble is one of rare 
sensitiveness—to beauty of form or of character. 
And these men think much, reflectively; with a 
deal of quiet, deep intensity. The embodied 
thought that has peopled our houses and tem- 
ples, our grounds and cities, with a pale, chaste, 
‘lovely race that, unchangeable, seems to mock 


39 


our imperfect humanity, has written a language of 
sensitiveness that earth will never willingly let die. 

“‘Had Raphael handled the chisel,” says La- 
martine, “he might have created a Psyche of 
Canova.” But as a fact it is not every man’s 
property model, this classic ideal of the soul. 
Greville Lovelace attempted a Psyche, and never 
artist went to the work with more devout ardor; 
but the block was barren, and the substitute 
would have served equally for one of Charles’s 
beauties. He lived.a life of homage to the Rho- 
dian art; while his apprehension of the poetry in 
the antique was perfect, yet was he incompetent 
to render the spiritual head for overexpression of 
the physical.. This had annoyed him; the feel- 
ing now became merged in involuntaryism, the 
face of his boy stole forth in the grouping, and 
the youthful beauty became ideal in the atelier. 
Other men might crowd their galleries with those 
who, as Pope has written: 


‘Heroes in animated marble frown, 
And legislators seem to think in stone; AY 


but his desire was of an infinitely more tender 
type, and the sensitiveness to the love gave shape 
to the thought. His boy came out in the pure, 
colorless form around. Unknown to himself he 
got fashioning it when he thought to do a Cupid 
or a Mercury, and the long mornings saw quite a 
succession of these unconscious copies, until a 
strahger coming in would have read the story of 
the sculptor’s love fully illustrated by its ideal 
artist. 

Now, somewhere, in years gone by, Mr. Love- 
lace had seen a splendid Paul, from beige. “ak 
de St. Pierre’s romance, and he set him to ¢ 
of stone another Paul, that it seemed, if only by 
reason of the model, should exceed in beauty the 
one remaining as vivid upon his memory as when 
beheld. So the boy, bared to the breast, beauti- 
ful curls all a-tangle, loaded with flowers and 
ferns, and supposed to be lifting Virginia across 
the stream, became the next fine work in the 
studio, and this gave sublime promise. The great 
sculptor would eclipse himself. 

But the thing came out a mistake. Soul, ideal- 
ity, beauty, were upon the execution, yet the 
study was imperfect; it was more than lifeless, 
for that it lacked companionship. Then the sculp-. 
tor bethought him. As beauteous a Virginia, as 
graceful, and what life might not the study 
achieve ? But where was the girl whose comeli- 
ness would parallel this boy’s, or make a mate 
for such a Paul? 

Then he remembered a sister, worldly anil 
wise, who had wedded a banker; not for love, 
but the bank, A fair girl ‘had come of it, turned 
at this time of twelve strong, healthy years. He 
did not believe in sisters, save in stone, and 
there had been little kinship; but once they had 
allowed his niece to do duty of courtesy, and stay 
a while at the lonely man’s large house. As he 
was not skilled in amusing little girls, the visit 
was a failure, and she went home declaring she 
would never go again. The white things had 
frightened her and made her dream of ghosts, 
and the grim, echoing corridors had caused her 
many a séare. Well, then, as she grew older, the 
sister, who, like most weaith-wedded folk, was a 
bit of a prude, thought it better not. There was 
a something rude, something improper, about 
the idea of a house full of nude figures; not 


40 A MODERN 


quite the school for a banker’s daughter ; besides, 
Greville was so peculiar! Thus it came about 
that he and his niece were almost strangers. 
But he wrote such a touching and uncle-like let- 
ter, and he must by this have put by so much, to 
say nothing of her being now a competent judge 
of good and of evil. So she was permitted to 
visit, with special injunctions on behavior and 
belles-lettres, and directions not to look at the 
statuary when any one was present. 

The boy looked shy at first, did not half like 
this inroad, or approve the boisterous mirth 
among the quiet ones; but the uncle was very 
clever, and knew what he was about. He would 
submit to a little annoyance for sake of his art. 

Yet how tenderly his gaze rested upon the 


IO 
= : 
\\ SS 


DNTAN 


i 


== 
~ —— 2 


MINISTER. 


The clever sculptor worked away delightedly, 
most innocent of the three, tossing his head back 
ever and anon to view the progress, and even 
thus sparing admiration for his boy, who, it must 
be confessed, had never looked more handsome, 
fretting uneasily as some lion cub in leash. 
‘Lovelace, who was more Greek than Saxon in the 
atelier, may have recalled the youthful minis- 
ters to Jupiter in the Temple of Agium, Archai, 
who were all receivers of prizes for their beauty; 
and these boy contests were some of the most in- 
teresting established by the beauty-loving Greek. 
The youthful priests of the Ismenian Apollo were 
likewise chosen for this possession. A grave rec- 
ord is extant (Paus., ix. 10, 22; vii. 24) of the 
wondrous loveliness of the boys who took part in 


“THE BOY CAUGHT THE SCULPTOR’S ABSORBED GLANCE, AND HIS EYES DROOPED.” 


boy’s grave beauty, so much more pleasing to 
him. 

The pose did not come off for some few days 
—he would not have it reported this was the mo- 
tive of his invitation. Bankers are yet human— 
and meantime his models became better com- 
pany. He saw the boy was not quite at ease, 
and pitied him, and was doubly kind; seeing 
which the girl would glide up and woo his dark 
eyes to smiles, looking hard to his soul with her 
strong, bright gaze. 

In the second week the two were*placed in 
tableau, arms and shoulders fair and bare as the 
company. The girl did not mind, for she wanted 
to see my lord without his jacket; but he blushed 
and trembled, to the chink of steel on stone, 


_the procession of Mercury at Tanagra. To such 
| excess was this adoration of the human beauti- 
ful carried, the Thebans had a law which sub- 
jected artists to disgrace who represented objects 
less beautiful than they were in reality (lian, 
Var., iv. 4). 

Thus grouped, the beautiful children presented 
a picture of rare poetry and a tenderness of de- 
sign in perfect harmony with the theme. Well 
'might the pair have stood for that superb piece, 
“The Birth of the Rose,” taken from one of the 
few lyrics handed down to us from the Lesbian, 
in which, “The Rose,” Sappho sings: “O Jupi- 
ter, if thou: desirest to give a Queen to the 
flowers, a throne to Beauty, I recommend thee 
| the Rose, daughter of thy first love!” The sculp- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


tor should have attained by this to matchless ex- 
cellence over one at least of his models, seeing 
the exquisite repetition of that face. Yet the 
work seemed strangely difficult. He had select- 
ed a block of his purest stone, from the vineyard- 
crested quarry between Massa and Carrara, pure 
and dazzling, of the finest grain, as befitted this 
the exquisite crowning work of his studio: no 
veins, or blue-gray spots, or streaks of yellow, 
the common finding in the stone, but surely the 
crystal flower of that duchy in the west. Even 
the ancient ‘Parian, warm, creamy, sensuous, or 
the gray-white majesty of block from Mount Pen- 
telicus—alas! exhausted, but thus rendering the 
world’s academy thrice valuable—was not more 
chaste. What was now wanting, when objects 
and material were not to be surpassed? The 
boy had to support Virginia so long a time that 
he plucked up courage and glanced aslant upon 
his burden, and all in a flash ‘a new light shone 
in his eyes and upon his face. It was instant, 
but it was lighting of fire upon the altar. The 
sculptor caught that glow, and with it the inspira- 
tion of his theme; and the boy caught the sculp- 
tor’s absorbed glance, and his eyes drooped. The 
gitl made a grimace at the boy, and asked her 
uncle for asponge-cake. It broke the rhapsody, 
and the sculptor ceased for the day. 

But on the morrow it was repeated, and every 
day until the time allotted for her stay came 
to its end. Boy and girl were both dull that last 
day together, and the mighty artificer came upon 
some whispering behind the snowy statuary, but 
was so enraptured with his work he took no no- 
tice. He bade his niece adieu with courtly quiet- 
ness, giving her a sovereign for sweets. 

All day he worked away, scarcely missing the 
child; but then he had his boy, whose lovely face 
yet thrilled the room with warmth and light and 
color. Still it struck him the tone and tint and 
hue were a trifle quieter. He placed it to the 
credit of the white ones, whose dead, calm glitter 
was of course reflected upon his face. Next day 
at breakfast Mrs. Housekeeper came to him to 
say young master had the headache. She had 
taken him tea, and he would come down stairs 
after breakfast. Mr. Lovelace sat roasting his 
toes and reading something about the transit of 
planets, until enter the boy, when the grave- 
faced looked up with a happy smile and gave 
him welcome, bidding him sit beside the fire; 
and, remarking the paleness, said the confine- 
ment was telling upon him, and he must get out 
more. They would have the carriage, and go to 
a morning performance at the. theatre—any thing 
to restore roses to that face. Midst of which came 
post-rap, and a letter from the niece, to say she 
had arrived home safely (he knew that, for one 
of his servants had accompanied her), and how 

‘much she had enjoyed the visit; a tiny flower 
dropping unseen by uncle, who did not believe in 
nieces. And when he looked round to address 
his boy again the color had returned, and he 
felt glad he had proposed that holiday, and just 
stepped up to take a peep at the troupe while the 
boy swooped to find the flower on the carpet. 
They had the holiday, and on the day that fol- 
lowed returned to the atelier. He had set his 
heart on a piece he would call ‘‘ The Dream,” and 
the boy would counterfeit slumber, the attitude 
one of rest. There would be no strain on -his 


41 


his soul a masterpiece of poem-like work. Day 
after day he wrought at it, and splendidly it grew 
beneath the inspiring touch; but somehow, when 
he came to the face and brow, and down-closed 
eyes, and sweet-shaped temples, and all contour 
of the soul-part, he could not translate the life 
into slumber nor the slumber into life. His cun- 
ning was at fault, his grand Hellenic craft a 
myth; he could not limit the boy’s soul to the 
marble, for the soul was no longer there; it wan- 
dered with the girl who had flashed like a star, but 
had taken his young, fresh love in her wake. 

The sculptor tapped his chisel and wondered 
why the “dream” would not come forth. It 
was no more than block, despite the beauty and 
the youth. He spoke kindly to his model; he 
was to think pleasant things, of things he loved 
(thus said the sculptor, with a satisfied smile, 
thinking of self, you see), But no answer came. 
He went to the couch and found—the model had 
long ago gone to sleep in right-down earnest. 
Whereat he nodded to himself reflectively. The 
child was so used to simulating the peaceful 
state, this sleeping unawares was little mystery. 

But now Mr. Greville Lovelace started with a 
wail, and a moan that hunted it round the cham- 
ber—the wherefore, merely a name and a broken 
kiss of a dream; but he knew by that the reason 
why the soul-light fled his artist hand. His art 
had overreached itself. 

With one strong, fierce blow he dashed the 
beautiful figure of Virginia to the ground, where 
it strewed the ebon tiles with cruel and dazzling 
fragments, but leaving Paul, beyond one scar, 
where the union had existed, as free, as fine, as 
firm as ever. The noise awakened the boy from 
his blissful dream, and he discovered the grand 
poet-face distorted as by tempestuous fury, a very 
lightning in the eyes of late so gentle, and quail- 
ing a bit, he never moved, but saw the girl-friend 
broken to a thousand pieces; and then—that 
lion before the dismantled pedestal melting all 
on the sudden, falling upon his knees with clasp- 
ed hands just below the marble Paul, while the 
passionate cry betrayed the bruised anguish of a 
life. ‘“ My God, not even this, but it is lost! Is 
there nothing human it is safe to love ?” 

“* Yes /”? murmured a little voice, and he looked 
swiftly up, to where beside him tearful beauty 
stood all eager to embrace him. Why, it was 
sweeter idyl than all his marble dreams, and 
looking from the chaste copy to the boy, he took 
the hand half sadly. “Our love of these, my 
dear, can never suffer, love them as we may.” | 

“But they can not love back,” whispered the 
little one, very tenderly. Then seeing his friend 
looking strangely upon the broken fragments, 
“Tt is broken;” and he drew the troubled face 
down and kissed it. The sculptor understood. 

# * = * # a 

After that, Mr. Lovelace attempted no more 
grouping. It was sculpture still, but alone. It 
was Adonai, son of the Star-beam; Mercury, 
nursling of Seasons; Hyacinth, the splendor of 
Flowers; Empedocles, the girl-boy ideal of old 
transmigration ; Endymion, whose beautiful sleep - 
on Latmos won Diana from the chase; and other 
classic youth, as beautiful and famous; but it 
was always ALONE. ; 

And the sculptor found his joy herein. That 
white world with its exquisite realism was all- 


strength for that, and the sculptor planned in | sufficient. He had in past times known the 


42 ; A MODERN MINISTER. 


mighty longing for the vast which comes once 
in a way to such: for breadth sufficient for the 
soul, wide spaces and open tracks, great shining 
seas, illimitable plateaus and mountain summits 
piercing fleecy clouds, broad forests, far stretches 
of verdant prairie, shores and sloping downs, 
heaths and wide odorous commons, clouds and 
blue spans, space—space—space ; the cry had 
been: 


*“Room! Give me room! Give loneliness and air.” 


But not now; there was content at last. And 
it is astonishing the little room, small space, de- 
manded by the soul when something is found to 
love. Verily it is contented with a nutshell with 
that love for kernel. So much for the finite, 
which abandons its vast yearnings, its soaring 
unto breadth, and uprising into azure, for little 
wall-girt bounds that seem for some idol of clay 
a complete paradise. 

And the boy loved the life, so chaste and still, 
save for that ring of steel on stone; loved the 
white world into which he had glided as by spells 
woven of phantasy; learned of his friend the 
language of the grander day; grew splendidly 
pensive, and felt the poetry, of which his soul 
was full, pervade his life with its calm seclusion, 
and he was happy as never before. 

Sometimes he thought of a father, whose young, 
gifted life spent upon this thing had burned itself 
out with feverish brilliancy in a foreign land; of 
his mother, of whom he had seen so little, and 
whom he would not now even know, but who 
was beautiful, too beautiful, and whose love of 
the theatre ruined his father’s happiness. And 
more often than of these he thought of his grand- 
father, loved with a love passing the love of boy- 
hood. 


ote 


CHAPTER VI. 
LADY FLORA, 


OnE morning in November, Lady Ellerby, re- 
turning from her drive, called upon Lady Com- 
darlington. The countess was at home, and 
sincerely pleased to see her friend. 

After the compliments, “I understand, my 
love, you have been to hear our Minister. JI am 
dying to know what you think of him.” 

Lady Flora looked grave, a deeper color dye- 
ing the lovely face. 

“T searcely know how to put into words the 
opinion I have privately formed to myself. 
Frank, as you know, is enraptured—” 

“Yes, but what do you think of him? Lord 
Ellerby is a great art critic, a most adequate and 
accomplished judge of beauty; but when it comes 
to ministers of the Gospel, I value your own 
opinion more highly. I know you to be ultra- 
fastidious.” 

“Oh, I don’t think so. Before marriage my 
life was so very secluded, I positively had no op- 
portunity of gratifying my fondness for attend- 
ing the ministry of our best preachers. I have 
formed an opinion certainly,” added the speaker, 
modestly, “but it is of little moment—” 

“Yes, dear; now do let me hear it.” 

“Well, to confess, he realizes my conceptions 
of goodness—of culture—of refinement.” 

“In other words, you think him a darling.” 

“Hush, dear! Not gute the term.” 


“Bless you, the earl always hears me call him 
that—quite looks for it, I assure you.” 

“T have not got into the way of such familiar 
phrasing, nor do I think it pretty.” 

“Goodness, Flora! I hope you are not going 
to become a prude, and forswear words of af- 
fection? Ah! I understand; you preserve these 
for your husband.” 

“The proper person, I should imagine.” And 
Lady Flora’s exquisitely pure face was lighted up 
with enthusiasm kindled by her love. 

“Yes; I do so admire your sentiments; they 
are new to me. I don’t know whether old-fash- 
ioned or new-fashioned, they are certainly new 
tome. But Iam glad you called; I was wanting 
to see you.” 

“To see me?” 

““Yes, I want you to tell me about this protégée 
of Lord Ellerby’s. Who is she?” 

Lady Flora looked rather bewildered. 
don’t know what you mean, dear.” 

““No, I suspected it ; then I ought not to tell you. 
If I were torn to pieces by wild horses, not a 
whisper should escape me likely to mar the hap- 
piness of a newly married pair like your pet of a 
self and your darling of a husband. As Isaid to 
Lady Pepper, ‘These things are best found out 
alone,’ ” 

With startled look the young wife rose from 
her chair, and crossing to the countess, sat down 
beside her upon the couch, 

“What is this, dear? Tell me, what do you 
mean ?” 

“Well, the Hon. Mrs. Glover and Miss Glover 
—let me see, do you know them? No, I think 
Fanny said she did not know you. Anyway, 
they live at Kensington, you are aware, my 
dear. Driving the other morning, whom should 
they pass— But no, not for wild horses.” 

With which tantalizing expletive Lady Com- 
darlington set those rows of pearl close, and look- 
ed elegantly immobile. Whole worlds should 
not force her to utter another word. | 

To Lady Flora it was more mysterious than 
terrifying thus far. She was so utterly taken by 
surprise that this was the predominant feeling, 
but not after parting of the rows of pearl. Un- 
solicited, her ladyship the countess, apparently 


ae 


thinking better of her resolution, exclaimed, with 


genuine sympathy: 

“T ought not to keep it back, and I won’t. 
Nothing shall induce me to conceal this any lon- 
ger; besides, you may be able to throw some light 
upon it. Don’t think, my dear child, we take 
the slightest interest in it beyond regard for your 
own happiness, not the slightest, but we do feel 
for you. There—you know what the men 
are.” 

“No, I don’t,” said Lady Flora, simply. 

“Well, so much the better; but you will do! 
As to trying to keep a handsome fellow in like 
your darling of a husband, it can’t be done. 
Lived in Paris too. Spoil any man.” 

“But what is it, dear?” asked her ladyship, 
becoming seriously alarmed. 

“Nothing, my dear child; I do assure you 
nothing. They are all alike; you are no worse 
off than I was, and we make up for it by adoring 
some darling of a fellow like this Garland, all 
tenderness, all sympathy. When one’s husband 
takes to driving pretty models about the town it is 
high time to look for sympathy; at least I think 


. 
+ 
: 
5 
7 
5 


: A MODERN MINISTER. Tae ; 


so, and you know I am not one of what you may 
call the advanced school.” 

Gradually something wonderfully horrible was 
dawning upon the young wife’s mind. Lady 
Comdarlington’s motives were harmless in the 
extreme; she was but faithful to her instincts. 
But this rendered the communication none the 
less hurtful to her innocent friend. She turned 
with infinite astonishment and pain to the count- 
ess for an explanation. 

“Well, I had it of Miss Glover, you know; 
quite an exceptional thing for dear Fanny to see 
or know any thing. But it is as Lady Pepper 
said to me this very day, ‘It is not for well-wish- 
ers to make mischief.’ Ah! it’s a wicked world, 
a delightfully wicked world, my love; but what 
are we to do? One can’t get out of it, that’s 
certain, and yet to remain in it is fraught with 
so much peril. The men are so naughty, but your 
darling of a husband is a regular rogue. So sly 
of him! And you really didn’t know of it? But 
of course you did not, you are so unsuspecting, 
and yet I almost wonder how it is you never 
objected to his being so much away from 

ou.” 

Flora felt as though a good cry would be a re- 
lief, but she was not going to give way if she 
could help it, for this charming countess to en- 
tertain her friends withal. 

“Frank has been away some few days, but I 
know he has a studio near town, and when taken 
with one of his painting fits he retires thither, he 
tells me, until it is over; you will admit to good 
purpose.” And the devoted young wife even at 
that moment thought proudly of his lordship’s 
paintings. 

“This sort of retirement gives men too easy 
facility for the indulgence of their hobbies. 
Comdarlington wanted to retire in the same way 
—only not the same plea; billiards or something 
in that line; but no, thank you. I kept close in 
Comdarlington’s shadow, and the consequence is 
the earl has been wonderfully good. It was I 
who trained him to love his church, and now 
look at him. When do we miss? Why, my 
child, we even go upon Christmas-day.” 

Flora bowed her head before this august ad- 
mission, feeling sadly without the pale. Some- 
times she had not been on Sundays. 

“But your ladyship has not yet told me what 
all this is about.” 

“Coming to the point immediately, dear, is so 
essentially a business qualification, I do not study 
its principles ; besides, it’s brutal and low; but I 
will be candid, I will indeed, and if I pain your 
feelings, don’t blame me, blame my candor. You 
must know that Lord Ellerby drives out with a 
most lovely creature, quite young, younger than 
yourself; pays this young and lovely creature 
marked attentions; is keeping this young and 
lovely creature at his studio: now is it cor- 
rect? That’s retirement from the world! Of a 
truth I don’t know when they are naughtiest, in 
the world or out of it. Take my word for it, 
Flora, the sole confidence is the Church.” 

Yes, she was even then thinking of that man 
with the wondrous pity, him whose every word 
vibrated with his intensity of feeling. She did 
not know whom to turn to in this hour of trial; 
she only knew people of the Comdarlington or- 
der, and their complimentary commiseration but 
pained the deeper. She was sitting so forlorn 


i 


word of advice or comfort. 


43 


and so unlike her usual self the countess kindly 
took the small hand in hers, saying: 

“Do not let this trouble you; it will all come 
right, I dare say. These artist-gentlemen, you 
know, do take a fancy now and then to some 
striking face which looks well upon their can- 
vas; but, bless me, if it was a serious matter, 
what imbroglios it would entangle them in!” 

“Tam much obliged for all your ladyship has 
told me; possibly it is as you say, but I am sure 
my husband will tell me all when he returns. 
Till then I have faith in him.” 

“Dear child!’ murmured the countess, su-’ 
premely affected, adding— 

“Of course you will not mention my name, 
nor dear Lady Pepper’s, nor Miss Glover’s. Fan- 
ny is so sensitive to the least approach to a scan- 
dal.” 

‘“‘ All you have so kindly told me is in strict 
confidence.” 

‘Thanks, sweet, I knew you would; and now 
promise me the pleasure of your company to tea 
to-morrow—a really quiet five-o’clock tea, no cer- 
emony, just a little enjoyable chat; w2// you? I 
shall think it so kind. Now do, dear.” 

And her friend promised, although feeling far 
from in the humor; but it was not Lady Flora’s 
nature to refuse any,thing that would give pleas- 
ure to another. 

It was a comfort to arrive home, to retire to 
her chamber, to kneel beside her bed with the 
beautiful face buried in her hands, with. tears 
making them moist, and sobs echoing through 
the solitary chamber. 

And all the strangely romantic and unusual 
nature of her courtship flashed upon her in that 
moment. A mere beauty quest! And might not 
this lover of beauty, whenever and wherever 
found, pursue a similar quest again, should his 
fancy be taken as it had been in her own case? 
She shuddered. 

Their acquaintance had been of but brief du- 
ration before marriage, for Ellerby was not the 
man to wait for any thing, least of all for a 
wife; but their love had been sincere, and Flora 
tried to think her husband true. 

Whom to turn to in this emergency she knew 
not, yet felt she would give much for a friendly 
Of all the select 
circle of their visiting acquaintance, she did not 
know one whom she could open her ‘heart to 
upon a subject so delicate. They were admirable 
while it was confined to dress and fashion, jewel- 
ry and flowers; but oh, not for this! 

Lord Ellerby had been so proud of his pretty 
wife he had introduced her rather freely, and her 
ladyship knew more very nice people than do 
the generality of young wives; but these very 
nice people were valued at their proper worth by 
Flora’s calm sense. But one, genuine, stanch, 
true, would have been more valuable than all of 
them together. 

Lady Flora had a suspicion that she was in- 
vited to meet Miss Glover, and she could scarcely 
contain herself, so anxious was she to ask that 
lady in person for particulars which her friend 
the countess could not or would not give. Not 
to become a spy upon her husband—Flora would 
have scorned the thought—but to ascertain the 
address of Lord Ellerby’s studio, which she did 
not even know. But his lordship’s day-or-so’s 
absence had extended over a week, and she had 


44 


received but one letter, telling her he was in the | 


thick of a splendid study, which he should bring 
home with him for her acceptance. And she 
had been perfectly content, until this disturbing 
event occurred, and Lady Flora rested content no 
longer. 

Her ladyship’s carriage drove up to the Count- 
ess Comdarlington’s slightly before time by eti- 
quette, and her ladyship was shown to the 
drawing-room; but had scarcely crossed the 
threshold when she started and fell back a step 
terribly confused, for there rose to meet her with 
courteous ease the other guest—Westley Gar- 
land. Lady Flora knew this to bea heinous, if 
playful, intrigue upon the part of the lady of dar- 
lings, and with hand on door, she murmured her 
half apology— 

“J beg your pardon—I thought—the count- 
ess—” 

“Has but this instant left the room to search 
- for a book of photographs. Permit me to sum- 
mon the maid to take your bonnet.” 

He touched a silver gong while saying this, and 
with thoughtful regard for her confusion, placed 
a chair for her, and immediately returning to his 
own, was apparently absorbed by the book over 
which he was bending. ‘And Lady Flora thought 
him excessively kind or excessively careless ; she 
inclined to the former. His voice thrilled, it was 
so unlike the wide chorus of complimentary, flat- 
tering, insincere ones to which she had lately 
been accustomed. But he took so little notice of 
her presence there she quickly regained compos- 
ure, and even stole a half-timid glance at the cause 
of her embarrassment. She could observe him 
better thus leaning over the volume, than when 
in the pulpit. All faces thus bowed in attitude 
of study possess a charm unlike that worn at any 
other time, when intellectuality becomes sculp- 
turesque, austere with the soul-majesty men 
trace in stone. Yet it was no hard face, no rigid 
and unfeeling expression, loveless and cold; 
rather full of a melancholy more striking than 
any of the emotional aspects, and so manifestly 
tender and compassionate, Flora felt attracted 
by it, and drawn toward it as never by a face 
before. Still, she thought it singular he neither 
looked up nor spoke. Stay, “The maid seems a 
long time—could not have heard, surely,” and he 
again touched the bell upon a side-table near by. 

Lady Ellerby thought this Minister singular- 
ly cool. Further speculation was ended by ap- 
pearance of the countess’s tire-woman, who asked 
if it was her ladyship’s pleasure to accompany her 
to the boudoir of the countess. Mr. Garland at 
once held open the door with affable politeness 
for Lady Flora to pass out, and while doing so, 
in thanking him, her eyes met his, and they were 
strangers no more. 

Not a word was.said, but she knew this man 
to be her friend, to be the friend for whom she 
had prayed in her trouble—genuine, stanch, true. 

In the boudoir the countess, charmingly effu- 
sive, having kissed her friend, took the hands 
captive, looking deep in the quailing hazel eyes. 

“Am I forgiven? I did so want you to know 
him! You'll be very pleased with him upon bet- 
ter acquaintance.” 

“Possibly ; but I felt dreadfully confused. It 
was too bad.” 

Her friend laughed merrily, and tapping a 
book of photographs in her hand, said: 


| 


A MODERN MINISTER. ; 


“Blame this; please don’t blame me; I can’t 
bear it, really. But take your bonnet off. What 
a duck it is! So glad the Minister saw you in 
this. And he will have to escort you home, you 
know, dear. Don’t be nonsensical about it; he is 
walking, poor man! And he so soon takes cold. 
It is some distance, and only yourself in that 
elegant carriage. You are not inhuman; you 
were never unkind; you won’t resist my plea ?” 

And Flora, as usual, assented, for the comfort 
of others, and at the expense of her inclinations, 

After that they returned in company to the 
drawing-room. Still bent over the book, he 
might not have moved, he seemed collected as 
though in his own study; but upon entrance of 
the ladies he gravely closed the work, with evi- 
dent interest in its theme. 

“T am sorry,” apologized the countess, “ to 
have left you for so long; but there, you know 
what the ladies are! My friend, Lady Ellerby, 
whom you have seen before. Flora, Mr. Gar- 
land. Lady Ellerby and I are widowed for a 
while ; thus your graceful acceptance of my infor- 
mal invitation is thrice welcome.” 

“The earl is away from Brighton ?” bowing 
slightly in acknowledgment of her compliment. 

“In Ireland. And dear Lord Ellerby is—we 
don’t know where.” 

Then the sad eyes read pain upon the fair 
face before him. 

Seed 


CHAPTER VIL. 
LITTLE ELLA REMEMBERS A NAME. 


Wuat was to some extent a blow, and alto- 


gether a severe annoyance, had befallen George 


Percival. 

After the mortification of describing in brief 
to those in Queen Street all that had transpired, 
he had fled from the shocked looks, more galling 
than words, because one can not argue with them, 
and had done as many another has done in 
trouble—gone home to the one face that never 
looks shocked, be innocence or guilt the portion, 
and told a listening mother every thing. But 
she had something to tell which would grieve 
him more than he had grieved her, for she knew 
her son could not do as he had been charged. 
She was comfortable on that score, and merely 
said, with tranquil folding of the hands: 

“Tf it is God’s will that you should enjoy a lit- 
tle less prosperity, my dear, depend on’t some 
wise prevision underlies it—something is in store 
which shall make up for all. And who knows,” 
added the good farmer’s wife, half to herself, 
“but that this strange affair may have been, 
after all, ruled for some purpose we can not now 
foresee ?” 

The strange affair was made comprehensible 
to George’s horrified understanding in this wise: 
Little Ella had been walking in the road beyond 
the farm, had been seen by Mrs. Percival to quit 
the garden, and had been seen upon the roadway 
by one of their laborers, and—been seen no more. 
In her alarm Mrs. Percival sent some distance 
for the farmer, and he, on riding up, although it 
was dinner-time, never dismounted, but scoured 
the roads for miles. And one he questioned had 
seen-a tall, queer-looking man walking fast along 
the meadows—the path leading to the railway sta- 


tion. Thither across country the farmer scamper- _ 


_— ee a 


5 ah 


of his care: 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ed, and in an hour came up with a tiny platform 
bare alike of passengers and officials. After 
shouting lustily for a quarter of an hour, some 
one heard him, and with drowsy leisure slouched 
to know the cause of the disturbance. Farmer 
Percival quickly made this known, and was re- 
warded by the drowsy one declaring he “knew 
naught about it, and didn’t want.” Anon a por- 
ter appeared upon the scene, and with information. 
He had seen a man and a girl, he remembered, 
yes, distinctly, because it was the last train that 
had gone, and these two were the only passen- 
gers—he quite remembered—they were booked 
for London. And here it‘ended. It had happen- 
ed only that morning, and a nice way they were 
in, as well they might be. 

“And George heard, with a terrible numbness 
at the heart. It all seemed to have come at once, 
trial upon trial, as they have from Job’s time un- 
til now, such things being too evil and too cow- 
ardly to go in single company. He had so looked 
forward to a season, if but a brief one, with the 
little girl. It was to have cheered him for the 
future, made up to him by gentleness for the 
rough experience of the trial; and now, gone / 
George felt benumbed, indeed, beneath it, but 
not for long, bestirring himself if for her moth- 
er’s sake alone; and. after quiet meal-time with 
his beloved parents, he, as much at their wish as 
by his own, returned to town, and gave the police 
a description of the child (and her companion, so 
far as was possible), and then went on to Queen 
Street as of old, much to Gabrielle’s quiet joy, 
for she had been greatly wounded by the events 
of the morning, and thought the clouds were 
gathering very thickly about her. But she pitied 
George most of all, to think that he, so unoffend- 
ing and so courteous, should have enemies, and be 
the victim of a cruel conspiracy, for this it was, 
Gabrielle felt well convinced ; and it was matter 
of as great surprise as sorrow. But Gabrielle 
took firm ground in the matter, and that, the 
strengthening of her cousin. She knew he need- 
ed something more than passive sympathy, even 
active comforting, and Gabrielle laid aside all self 
entirely, and made the child.-the means of dis- 
tracting thought from present trouble; but 
when he returned at even-tide and told her she 
too was lost, she was discomposed, and full of yet 
deeper, yet more unselfish, sympathy. If she 
could have gone out that moment dnd laid a 
hand upon the child, and brought her in to 
George, she would have done so, even though 
her heart broke over the operation ; but it would 
not have been the case, she was too practical for 
that. 

- How much she felt to love him, now in the 
hour of his trouble! She could not help it; but 


would, had she dared, have wound her arms 


about his neck and taken of him the full burden 
Gabrielle did not do this; but she 
did stand beside him, a hand upon his chair, look- 
ing down upon the clear broad brow so pityingly ; 
it seemed the eyes below there must be drawn up- 
ward by that magnetic power, that sublime emo- 
tion, which moved a fragile woman to the strength 


of her oines. 


“Do not be downcast, George; all will be well. 
You did not need the bank ; you can live without 
that; and, remember, it is but a day or two ago 
you talked of doing so,” 

“ Ay, we often talk of things which, when they 


45 


come and front us face to face, crush us most 
utterly. Ido not fear the living. When I com- 
plete the work I am engaged upon, it is a living 
in itself, providing always the publishers will 
take it. Ithink, Gabrielle, most of this disgrace. 
God knows I am not proud, but I do like to hold 
my head erect; and how can I do this beneath 
the stain ?” 

“Few know of it, and for that few what matter ?” 

“Tt will spread like poison upon a stream, as 
these things do.” 

‘“‘But you will be cleared, and then the world 
will learn the cruel injustice done you.” 

“People never care to listen to that which 
clears, or to remember it. Have you not found 
it is the matter which is injurious they take most 
pains to ascertain and to remember? But I 
would have left this and escaped to some hum- 
ble sphere, contented could I have sometimes 
seen poor little Ella. That is my great grief.” 

“My dear cousin, do you seriously take into 
consideration that there are other little girls be- 
sides Ella in the world ?” 

“Tt does not compensate me for loss of her.” 

“No; but it points an obvious possibility of 
discovering another. Events may be transpiring 
to place another in your hands, requiring even 
more care and protection than Ella. You will 
come and see us very often, George, if you are 
determined to leave the kind ones here?” 

“‘T could not bear to face the prying gentility 
at every window whenever I set foot in Queen 
Street. For the other part of your remark, I do 
not think it likely.” 

‘““Well, George, you know I look at things in 
a very plain way, yet with a faith that is some- 
times equal to much reasoning; and I hold to 
the opinion that dear little Ella would not have 
been removed from your care without some good 
cause. Perhaps it was foreseen you would be- 
come too fond of her—I always had an idea that 
when you did take to any thing it would be no 
insignificant attachment—and in that case to be’ 
compelled to part with her when Mrs. Travers — 
had again a home would have been painful to 
you, I am sure. Now I think it very likely you 
will be thrown somehow in the way of another 
requiring a protector and guardian more than 
does this little girl, who, at least, has her moth- 
er to depend upon. I think you called me once 
your good prophet, did you not? Well, let me 
be your prophet now.” 

He revived under the influence of her words 
and cheering manner. He did not notice—it 
was so faint he could not—the veriest shade of 
sadness at her allusion to the words he had used 
of old time. 

He took his cousin’s hand in his, and gravely 
thanked her. 

And then they talked anxiously of the where- 
abouts of the child, and of the possible cause of 
her disappearance. 

- “T incline to an opinion Mr, Beresford Travers 

is at the bottom of this—and yet Mrs. Travers 
never went out all the time she was with us, 
when likely to be seen; and even if he saw the 
little girl, he would not know it was his grand- 
child; besides, I believe he was in town at the 
time, or certainly absent from the Court.” 

“Ts it not more likely to be that enemy of 
whom you have told me Mrs. Travers appeared 
in constant fear ?” 


46 A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Tf it was known the child had been intrusted ' 


to my keeping, it is more than probable.” 

‘‘There is some horrible web.” 

“From which I am about to release myself by 
retiring to complete obscurity. I found a highly 
respectable and apparently a comfortable home 
this afternoon, in a quiet street which lies at the 
back of the Euston Road. There I propose to 
devote all my time to my work. I shall have 
nothing to deter me, and should make progress.” 

Gabrielle heard with a heavy heart, and felt 
that, indeed, the dream was over. 

* * * * * * 

What had really happened to Ella may be 
briefly told. 

Walking by the hedge-side, she came to a gate, 
beside which was a stile, where the foot-path across 
some meadows led to the town. Sitting upon the 
stile was a man, Bartholomew Rolf. 

He spoke to her kindly enough. 
him, and walked on. 

Presently she found he was following her, and 
she began to retrace her way, meeting him a hun- 
dred yards back on the road. 

The man looked hard at the child, and ex- 
claimed: ‘‘ Why, Miss Travers, surely I am not 
mistaken, I think!” drawing a letter from a greasy 
pocket, and looking down on the superscription. 

““Yes,”’ said Ella, eagerly, losing caution under 


She answered 


the apprehension of the messenger coming from’ 


her mother, who might be ill. 

Then he handed the crumpled missive to the 
child. ‘“ You are to read it now, please.” She 
did so. This was the purport: 


“DEAR LITTLE Girt,—You will accompany the 
kind bearer of this, who will bring you to town 
at once. Do not stop for any thing. 

“GEORGE PERCIVAL.” 


She had seen the signature many times before. 
She put the letter in her pocket. 

“T must run and tell them I am going, and get 
my things together.” 

“No,” said the man; “ you will come with me, 
my dear. We shall barely catch the train as it 
is. There is not a moment to spare.” 

‘But will you please to tell me what for? Why 
am I wanted so quickly?” She could only think 
of her mother. 

“Something very important. I am only obey- 
ing orders. My instructions were to see you to 
town, and if you'll come [ll do so; if not, I'll go 
on,” and he made as though moving off. 

She said it was such a little way back to the 
farm she would just run in and tell them. The 
man said he would lose the train, and kept on 
the walk across the field: In an agony of per- 
plexity she entreated he would but wait a minute 
ortwo. The man said it was more than his head 
was worth. It was a long, thin, cruel head, and 
it was more than his head was worth. 

With tears she implored of him to wait, and he 
called back she could write all she had to say, 
but that if-she didn’t come along he couldn’t wait. 
So she went with him, racked with pain for her 
mother’s sake. 

Upon arrival in London he bade her keep close 
to him or she would be lost, and the ill-assorted 
couple walked quickly in the direction of Gray’s 
Inn Road. At a dead-and-alive sort of tenement 
in this thoroughfare the guide paused, lustily ring- 
ing a bell. The summons was answered by a 


slatternly serving-maid, the pitiable fag of the 
establishment of three sets of lodgers and the 
numerous progeny of those in occupation, 

Bartholomew Rolf walked into a down-stairs 
front-room, where, upon an apology for a sofa, 
was reclining that particular blonde who at times 
caused such commotion in Queen Street, Padding- 
ton. 

“‘ How do, my dear?” said Mr. Rolf, with par- 
ticularly indifferent affection, considering the 
lady passed as Mrs. Rolf. ‘This is the little 
gal I told you of, and you will take especial care 
of her.” 

The “little gal” was looking with wonderment 
at that astonishing construction, the plaited coil 
upon the lady’s head, and she just turned to the 
child with, “Well, what are you staring at? 
Come here, child, and let’s look at you.” 

The child went over to her, well scared by the 
grim welcome, and wondering where Mr. Perci- 
val was all the time. 

“T don’t think much of you.” And the blonde 
turned pettishly to Mr. Rolf, who was occupying 
himself with drawing the cork of a bottle of ale. 

“T expected you home last night, Bartholo- 
mew.” 

“Couldn’t get away; never caught a sight of 
her till this morning.” 

Ella was becoming frightened. She looked 
very timorous and pretty to any eyes but those 
of this ferocious pair, of whom the woman, taw- 
ny as a tigress and as savage, was the most in- 
timidating. 

‘“* May T see Mr. Percival, if you please ?” civil- 
ly asked the little girl, but quite with the manner 
of having the right to ask to see that gentleman. 

“Yes, you dare get asking to see gentlemen in 
my presence! There’s no Mr. Percival here. The 
first gentleman you'll have the pleasure of seein 
is Mr, Noel Barnard, I suspect.” 

The child turned white. That was the cruel 
enemy,.and this a trap she had fallen into but 
too easily. The peril was imminent, but her 
presence of mind: was equal to the emergency ; 
she had not passed through the severe tuition 
for nothing. She quietly removed her hat and 
jacket. Mr. Rolf poured her out half a glass of 
foaming ale; this she declined. 

“TJ think I can drink a bottle, Bartholomew,” 
said the fair one upon the sofa, and Mr. Rolf 
drew the cork of another bottle. After which 
that gentleman went out, strictly enjoining Mrs. 
Rolf to take particular care of the child. But 
Mrs. Rolf went off to sleep under the effects of 
the novel she tossed to the child to read to her. 
Then Ella remembered the name of Sir Horace 
Vivian, Belgrave Square; thought also of a 
scheme of escape. 


———_.————_— 


CHAPTER VIII. 
A QUIET CUP OF TEA. 


Ir November can be pleasant any where—and, 
after all, there are balmy and genial days in the 


much-abused month—it is in Devonshire, and | 


pre-eminently at Torquay, where nature seems to 
cling longer than elsewhere to the exquisite hues 
and softened air of autumn. ‘“ Quel beau pays !” 
cried the great Napoleon, when, a prisoner, he 
gazed over the panorama of Tor Bay. ‘‘ Comme 


A MODERN 


il resemble La Porto Ferrajo!’ Of a truth the | 
country about the charming town is as luxuriant 
through the winter as are many other parts of 
England throughout the more favored months. 

Eagle Hall looked particularly comfortable and 
pleasant at this season. Its easy-going proprietor 
had a large idea of comfort and pleasantness, and 
to a door mat the interior must be the quintes- 
sence of luxury. 

In an elegantly appointed chamber above stairs 
—Sir Kinnaird declined using the lower rooms 
after the thirty-first of October, in case there 
should be any damp about—at eight o’clock in 
the evening, upon the softest of couches drawn 
up to a sparkling fire, Sir Kinnaird was taking 
tea. 

There was a bijou tea-pot worth a hundred 
pounds if a penny; three tiny cups and saucers 
xs valuable; a cream ewer, of the time of Louis 
XIV., with sugar vase to match ; the whole upon 
a miniature tray, placed upon a low ebony table 
made the exact height to accommodate the bar- 
onet upon this couch, without the pain of dis- 
tending a single nerve. 

But inasmuch as there was only Sir Kinnaird 
and his servant present, it will be wondered why 
three cups were placed. Did the gentleman ex- 
pect friends to tea? No; the gentleman did not 
have friends to tea. Had he taken a hint from 
whist, and sat down to tea with a dummy, through 


sheer loneliness? Nothing of the kind; he did 
like loneliness, and did not like dummies. Loved 
_ to look upon this old china, perhaps—some heir- 
loom? Not at all; he had drunk tea from these 
several times, but not yet even exerted himself 
to notice their pattern. The truth was, Sir Kin- 
naird entertained strong aversion to the contact 
with any thing too hot or too cold, and to remedy 
drinking tea too hot, while at the same time to 
secure temperately heated china, he made use of 
the trio of trifles, and doubtless was all the hap- 
ier. 

B Simmons, Sir Kinnaird’s private attendant, 
stood behind his master’s couch, but within reach 
of the table, to spare the baronet the slight effort 
of assisting himself. 

‘Now, Simmons, we will try again.” 

The recent trial had been a fiasco, owing to the 
fragrant beverage not pouring forth the exact 
shade to please the fastidious drinker. The lady 
housekeeper, bent upon really pleasing Sir Kin- 
naird, took care, when the pot first came down 
stairs, to count the precise number of leaves 
therein, and from that time devoted an hour 
every afternoon to counting out a similar num- 
ber from her pearl-inlaid tea-caddy, in order that 
he should have it exactly the same. 

Simmons warmed a cup, measured a spoon and 
three-quarters of cream, looked carefully for the 
whitest lump of sugar, and was about to lower 
this with excess of caution in order that there 
should be no displeasing noise, when— 

“‘ Not too sweet, my good fellow; my palate re- 
jects the saccharine this evening.” 

And while his attendant dutifully and with per- 
fect respect looked the vase over for a lump some 
grains less, the martyr changed his position wea- 
rily, as though the endurance necessary to recline 
at ease was quite fatiguing. Something in the 
fire distracted the baronet’s attention ; something 
in the fire fidgeted Sir Kinnaird Dalton, and Sir 
Kinnaird Dalton was not to be fidgeted by fire or | 


MINISTER. 47 
any other element. Simmons moved round im- 
mediately, with wonderful quietness, but immedi- 
ately. There was not a sound while he raised 
the poker with an exquisite skill, and held the 
deadly weapon with a firm grip; then a low 
cough—a premonitory warning that might have 
been clothed in swan’s-down, and— 

“By your leave, J will slightly raise the fire, 
Sir Kinnaird.” 

“Do; just remove that coal, crackling, and 
fizzing, and kicking up a devil of a row. Can’t 
think why they will do it. Worst of winter. 
Fire-place the desperado of civilization, and ruin 
to the nerves of sensitive folk. Wait, please: 
now.” 

Sir Kinnaird held his white hands close upon 
those delicate, shell-like ears, and in spite of this, 
and although the operation was performed with 
consummate nicety, winced painfully. 

After this his servant returned to his position 
as before, and permitted the fluid to trickle from 
the diminutive spout until the cup was three parts 
full. Mr. Simmons would not have permitted an 
extra drop to overweigh the china; he knew just 
precisely the capacity of his master’s strength. 
Something was wrong still ; Sir Kinnaird was gaz- 
ing with speculative interest at his tea; some- 
thing was thereon or therein Simmons could not 
see, and Simmons was troubled. The baronet 
was about to speak, and might throw some light 
on it. 

‘Something floating here. Can’t think how’tis 
so many things get floating that ought not to.” 

“ Allow me, Sir Kinnaird.” 

“You are very good; thank you.” The pri- 
vate attendant removed a little “stranger.” 

“Pass it to me, please—or perhaps you’ll see 


if he has started ?” 


Simmons walked respectfully to the most re- 
mote corner of the room, placed the piece of 
stalk upon the back of his hand, and silently, 
decorously, and in the usual manner, obtained 
the information. He approached his master with 
solemnity. Sir Kinnaird, upon raising his leisure- 
ly patrician head, put the query by a look, and 
Simmons replied, with the gravity of a Lord Chan- 
cellor: 

“‘T expect him this evening, Sir Kinnaird.” 

“T beg he won’t trouble, for I really am not 
equal to it.” 

Simmons adjusted a cushion below his master’s 
elbow, aware by old experience that, whether in 
bed or on the couch, if two feathers did become 
united, Sir Kinnaird’s delicate frame-work was 
certain to detect it, and suffer agony in conse- 
quence. Many a time, in the middle of the night, 
Simmons had been summoned from a calm sleep 
to rectify a catastrophe of the kind, and effect an 
immediate divorce with as gentle skill as was 
possible. 

Something on the wall next disturbed Sir Kin- 
naird Dalton, and nothing in existence could be 
permitted to do this; rather should the wall be 
removed. It was the flickering of the fire-light 
upon the burnished gold of a picture-frame, and 
without a word the confidential servant walked 
upon tiptoe, jumped with unerring dexterity upon 
a chair, and removed the picture. The wall-paper 
was of French exquisiteness, and elfins gambol- 
led in and out of garlands; but the same light 
caused these to flit without regularity or symme- 
try, and any thing without regularity or symme- 


48 A MODERN MINISTER. 


try was not to be allowed in any residence in the 
occupancy of a Dalton. Simmons placed a screen, 
and darkened the chubby limbs of the riotous 
troupe. 

Then was heard a terrific ringing of the great 
bell which commonly announced a call. 

“T will go to bed; tell them I am indisposed, 
or at least unequal to reception. Whata time of 
night to make that awful din! Oblige me by see- 
ing into it, and have the wire cut.” 

With an expression of affliction Simmons re- 
tired backward. Outside was a white sheep-skin 
rug, and after cautiously closing the door, he raised 
the rug above the bottom of this, in order that no 
stealthy current of cold should penetrate beneath, 
following upon the disorder-which appeared prev- 
alent below stairs. 

There was indeed exceeding great confusion 
below stairs for a mansion conducted upon prin- 
ciples of model tranquillity. 

Simmons heard an unseemly shuffling of. feet 
and a muffled contention, as though the servitors 
were impeding some one whose entrance was 
pressed with perseverance ; and, much scandal- 
ized, he hastened to the scene, fearful that the 
disaster would destroy Sir Kinnaird’s rest for 
many a day and night to come. 

“Hush! hush!” implored the thoughtful fel- 
low. ‘Do you not know our master is any thing 
but strong this evening? Such disorder may 
take fatal effect. What is it all about?” 

“‘ Here’s an old man clamoring to see the earl. 
We have told him no earl lives here, but he won’t 
take no for an answer.’ 

Simmons at once went to the entrance hall 
where a pinched and care-worn old man, with an 
aristocratic profile, stood with utmost politeness 
but resolute. 

“T am Sir Dickson Cheffinger. Ihave not my 
card, but bear the name to the earl, and I am 
sure he willsee me. It is upon urgent business.” 

Now’ Simmons, from long living with noble 
families, was strongly averse to a scene, and he 
had acquired a method of circumventing obnox- 
ious visitors, which proved of inestimable service 
in Sir Kinnaird’s household. He civilly ushered 
this gentleman into a small room—the farthest 
removed from the suite occupied by Sir Kinnaird 
—and invited the stranger to sit down for a few 
minutes. This Sir Dickson courteously declined, 
and thought he infinitely preferred his own man 
James to this well-dressed individual sleek and 
urbane as a dancing master. He again express- 
ed a desire to see the earl upon urgent business. 

“Perhaps I may explain, Sir, this is Eagle 
Hall.” 

“T know it—just what I want—I’ve come from 
town on purpose by rail.” 

“Sir Kinnaird Dalton, Baronet, is the propri- 
etor here, Sir.” 

“Bless me, yes; now you put it quietly I do 
remember that to be the name. [ve been knock- 
ing my head up against the Earl of Dartmouth ; 
but never mind; Sir Dalton will see me. Tell 
him Sir Dickson, Cheffinger solicits an audience.” 

“You will excuse me, Sir, but Sir Kinnaird 
Dalton’s state of health does not admit of his 
giving audience at the best of times, and this 
evening he is dangerously indisposed.” 

‘So much the more reason why I should see 
him—the man may die before I can come in the 
morning, Please take my name in to Sir Dalton.” 


Simmons was much shocked; this person non- 
plussed even his phlegmatic assurance; he adopt- 
ed a resistful attitude. 

“You understand, Sir, our master expects us 
to preserve him from the intrusion of strangers 
who may call at all sorts of times and seasons.” 

“My patience! I wonder what your master 
would say to my reception-rooms, thronged from 
morning until night! Suppose I made a trouble 
of receiving my guests, where do you think they 
would be? Out in the cold, I take it. But it 
pleases me to see ’em, and I don’t keep them 
waiting in the entrance hall, or in a down-stairs 
room. When your master calls upon me he will 
be admitted to my presence at once.” 

Simmons began to think the man must be some 
very great sham or a very great person; he in- 
clined to the latter, and made concession : 

“The best I can do, Sir, is to go to Sir Kinnaird, 
and see if he is willing to grant you an audience.” 

“Grant me an audience indeed! Any one 
would suppose you served the monarch of Tim- 
buctoo !” 

With a very horrified expression Simmons with- 
drew, while the man people thought mad sat down, 
a pleasant smile upon the lined face. He was 
gaining his point, and that went a long way with 
Sir Dickson Cheffinger. 

Simmons returned cautiously to his master, and 
as he entered started, with a heavy heart. Sir 
Kinnaird was stretched, apparently lifeless, upon 
the couch; but bending over him devotedly, the 
attendant discovered his master was calmly sleep- 
ing; and what sleep it was! The respiration of 
an infant could not be more untroubled. And 
while Simmons looked he shuddered, thinking of 
the ordeal in store for the unconscious fugitive 
from worry. 

‘It would never do to awaken Sir Kinnaird Dal- 
ton—such vandalism would be outrage, in the opin- 
ion of this finished gentleman’s gentleman—there- 
fore Simmons: leaned an elbow upon the mantel 
and waited ; he would on no account have taken 
the liberty of sitting even in the presence of a 
sleeping master. It was while standing thus he 
heard a quiet voice say, 

“Well, Simmons, have you set it straight ?” 

It was Sir Kinnaird, who had simply roused 
himself from one of those languid reveries when 
to speak was too much exertion. 

“JT beg your pardon, Sir Kinnaird, I thought 
you were sleeping.” 

“No; was going off, but the corner of my coat 
or some awfully hard thing stoppedme. Tell me 
the time.” 

Simmons consulted the time-piece on the mantel, 
and in a low tone informed him it was half past 
eight. 

“JT make bold to tell you, Sir, a gentleman is 
below who wishes to see you upon important 
business; he sends up the name of Sir Dickson 
Cheffinger. * 


“You know me well enough to communicate, 


an answer without giving me the trouble. Idonot 
say I am displeased: I am null and void; I can 
not, under a certain term of hours, realize myself 
being so situated.” Sinking back, Sir Kinnaird 
appeared tosleep profoundly ; but presently start- 
ed under the influence of a sudden thought. 
“Strange, but I can not get it out of my head; 


he may have something to tell me relative to—to 


—er— Simmons!” 


_— 


. 
; 
. 
. 


)}A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Sir Kinnaird !” 

“ Just ask this person to send me up an inkling 
of his motive in desiring to see me.” 

Simmons retired, was absent a brief season, 
and returned. 

Sir Kinnaird was not asleep, nor at all approach- 
ing it. 

Upon receiving permission by a look, the at- 
tendant said, “I delivered your question, Sir Kin- 
‘ naird, and the person replied that his business had 

connection with the former holders of the estate.” 

“T thought so; you can admit him.” 

When Mr. Cheffinger was ushered into the room 
Sir Kinnaird still maintained the recumbent atti- 
tude, but raised his head slightly and looked a lit- 
tle curiously at the singular visitor. He could 
scarcely tell if prepossessed or not, but he de- 
voutly hoped the person would not make much 
noise. Mr. Cheffinger advanced with every deli- 
cacy, and without noise. 

““T am sorry to find you indisposed, my lord; 
sorry to trouble you at this inopportune moment.”’ 

“He will persist upon elevating me to the 
peerage,” thought Sir Kinnaird. ‘ Now if any 
thing would bore me more than another, it would 
be that.” Then to the visitor: “ Yes, it is awk- 
ward. I had two minds about seeing you, but 
am interested in all concerning my predecessors 
here, therefore waived convenience; but you 
won’t keep me long, please.” 

“Certainly not” (looking in the direction of 
Simmons, standing mute as an Egyptian). ‘We 
might converse more pleasantly alone.” (Sir Kin- 
naird inclined his head—Simmons did not see it 
—the visitor addressed him) ‘‘ Lord’Dalton signi- 
fies you may retire.” 

Simmons remained perfectly stationary, but 
looking toward Sir Kinnaird, caught a responsive 
glance implying the assenting wish, and retired 
with undeviating obedience and respect. 

“‘ Now, Sir, we are alone.” 

“T will not detain your lordship long. I have 
the honor to be acting for the Rev. Westley Gar- 
land, of Brighton, in a matter of private munifi- 
cence. Mr. Garland does much good—he has 
helped myself—a_ Cheffinger ever forgets a serv- 
ice. I was requiring some engagement for lei- 
sure time—revenues of my estates not being yet 
forth-coming—and, very kindly, Mr. Garland de- 
puted me to undertake a commission of delicacy. 
Mr. Garland is interested in the late lady of this 
mansion—in her little girl; he was the intimate 
friend of her husband, Sir Lionel Travers; he 
would help them. Conscientiously I have been 
upon the track. I traced Lady Travers and Miss 
Travers to the park gates of Lord Travers, and 
have since failed to make progress. I have re- 
cently seen Mr. Garland in London; I recom- 
mence with vigorous interest this absorbing pur- 
suit. It was a suggestion on Mr. Garland’s part 
that I should call upon your lordship, who, he 
assured me, would afford any information in your 
power, and would receive me with perfect courtli- 
ness, which your lordship has, I must gratefully 
acknowledge.” 

It was all very rambling, with odd mixing up 
of styles and titles, but there seemed something 
in it, some seed of interest in the welfare of dear 
old Lionel’s unfortunate wife and child, and it 
only needed this to enlist Sir Kinnaird’s sym- 
pathy; ay, and a sympathy mighty as any feel- 
ing he had ever experienced. 

Vou. 1.—D 


It was et jlower down behind one of the ‘curates,” 


49 


| beneath the natural or assumed repose and un- 


disturbed serenity, and he was alert to the fact 
that another, and a minister—the most popular 
man of his time—was anxious concerning the 
fate of Mrs. Travers and her daughter, was act- 
ively exercising himself about the honored mem- 
ory of Lionel; and Sir Kinnaird said to himself : 
“TY declare now I could clasp that fellow Gar- 
land’s hand more warmly than that of any man 
I know.” 

Sir Kinnaird himself had those at work upon 
this very business, and was at no illiberal cost in 
his indefatigable efforts to follow up the clew. 
He had believed this person to be seeking audi- 
ence to further his own investigations, but it 
proved to be on account of those directed by the 
Minister. Sir Kinnaird was never equal to dis- — 
cussing celebrities, nor bearing them in mind; 
but in common with the rest of mankind he had 
heard of this Minister, and felt rather glad so 
important a person was enlisted in their cause. 

““T am extremely indebted to your friend for 
his good opinion; my nerves do not admit of my 
seeing people in the general way, but I am glad 
to know yourself and friend are sympathizers 
with this lady, whom I consider very hardly used. 
I don’t think I can help you; I wish I could. I 
should be as glad as any one to hear of their re- 
appearance upon our planet.” 

It was all said so quietly the visitor was half 
in doubt as to its genuineness, and was a little 
afraid of a something underlying the words— 
something in the manner, it might be mocking 
irony, it might be a delicate cynicism. Mr. Chef- 
finger did not like it, but passed no remark; he 
had not crossed paths with a being of the kind 
before, and did not know such cynical armor 
may shield the most tenderly sensitive of natures. 

The baronet was reclining at luxurious ease, 
head back upon his interlaced hands, eyes care- 
fully shaded from glare of the lamp, yet with a 
flood of softened light upon the cheek. A line 
here and there might indicate that Sir Kinnaird 
was any thing but so young as he seemed; but 
more conclusive than these were the tranquil 
manners which are alone possible when years 
have lapsed to the halcyon era that succeeds the 
feverish unrest of the first three decades of man’s 
existence. 

“Of course we do not know that Mrs. Travers 
has remained in England. It seems to be a cir- 
cumscribed space to confine research to.” 

Poor Sir Dickson looked scared; he did not 
feel in the least equal to more extended travel. 

“Tt is in my power to help you some steps far- 
ther than Beresford Court,” continued the baron-. 
et. ‘Mrs. Travers was for some few days resting 
at a farm by there, from whence she went to Lon-. 
don. Ido not know what for, but in all proba- 
bility to seek for some lady-like occupation. If 
so, I shall no doubt hear where all in good time. 
It is utterly useless, indeed exceedingly improper, 
to flurry one’s self about any thing lost, strayed, or 
stolen—sure to turn up—or, if not, it is our duty 
to pray the finder may be caused as little annoy- 
ance as possible.” 

Mr. Cheffinger thought of this languid piece of 
self very much as the nervous cleric thought of 
Paley, who, at dinner one day, feeling inconven- 
ienced by a “draught of air, directed the attendant 
to “shut that window behind me, and open one 
But 


50 


Mr. Cheffinger had gleaned some little informa- 
tion, and felt proportionately grateful. 

‘Should you happily learn of the whereabouts, 
perhaps, my lord, you would drop a line to—to— 
I dare not say to myself, I so frequently change 
my hotel—say to the Rev. Westley Garland, 
Brighton.” 

“T shall be pleased to do so. If equal to it, I 
would run over and see your friend. I should 
much like to know him; but you have no idea, 
Sir Dickson, how I should suffer for many months 
afterward from the effects of the exertion. Some 
bodies will not bear overtaxing—mine is one.” 

“T can understand; your lordship experiences 
fatigue ; but I do assure you,” said the man they 
thought mad, with solemnity, ‘if any one is worth 
suffering fatigue for, it is the Minister.” 

“Well, Sir, I have told you that in the event 
of my gaining intelligence likely to interest Mr. 
Garland, I will write to him, or instruct my secre- 
tary to do so.” 

“Most happy, I’m sure.” 

Both gentlemen looked over to the portion of 
the room in shadow from whence the politely 
sareastic voice proceeded, and Cheffinger shud- 
dered, for from his position he could see the 
mocking face, the weird, glittering eyes that 
turned him cold. Sir Kinnaird, without stirring, 
coolly remarked : 

‘“‘T did not hear you enter, Mr. Barnard.” 

‘“‘T am so careful of your nerves, Sir. I know 
with your susceptibility to noise the lighter .the 
footstep the more agreeable. I came in soon aft- 
er Sir Dickson Cheffinger, whom I have the hon- 
or to be acquainted with.” Ata stride he stood 
by the side of that unfortunate gentleman, who had 
thus unwittingly put his head into the lion’s den, 
holding forth a talon-like white hand that curl- 
ingly gripped the trembling digits of Sir Dickson. 

“Good gracious!’ murmured Sir Kinnaird, 
wearily, but not as in the least surprised, so pre- 
pared was he for the supernatural appearing or 
disappearing of his diabolical secretary, or for 
any acquaintance he might possess: terribly an- 
noyed, nevertheless. 

“Has Sir Dickson Cheffinger partaken of re- 
freshment ?” inquired Mr. Noel Barnard, hospi- 
tably. 

‘No, Sir Dickson Cheffinger has not,” replied 
Sir Kinnaird, stretched upon his back, following 
Cupid at kiss-in-the-ring with the elfins, and wor- 
ried exceedingly by the flickering of the fire-light 
upon Sir Dickson Cheffinger’s greasy old hat; 
which, from continual mislaying, he had taken to 
holding very tight whenever off his head; and 
which at this meeting he fidgeted with until it 
became like unto an uncertain Catherine-wheel 
before the quivering baronet. 

“Then perhaps Sir Dickson will do me the 
honor to accompany me down stairs, where I will 
see that Eagle Hall shall yield its best in recog- 
nition of Sir Dickson’s mission.” And no sign 
coming from the couch, where, apparently tired 
out, the noble martyr rested passively uncon- 
scious, Sir Dickson assented, and followed the 
tall form forth to the shadowy corridor, on to the 
shadowy landing, down the shadowy stairs, across 
the shadowy hall, and into the small, plainly fur- 
nished parlor reserved by the secretary for his 
private occupancy. 

— “Sit down, my dear Sir Dickson; Pll go and 
see what our larder provideth.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


The poor gentleman thought it chilling after 
the sumptuous elegance of the pretty chamber 
above stairs. Neither had he desire to eat; but 
Mr. Barnard was not a gentleman he could say 
“No” to, and there was a mystery, legal and 
otherwise, surrounding him like a fog; so that 
the most and the least Sir Dickson could do was 
to remain inoffensively agreeable to any thing. 

Mr. Barnard returned, followed by a maid bear- 


rean larder, and Sir Dickson partook sparingly 
and of the very plainest of the fare, rather vex- 
ing his kind entertainer, who, having selected 
them himself, recommended first one dish and 
then another as particularly worthy the honor of 
Sir Dickson’s attention ; but the ordinary rule of 
abstinence observed by the poor gentleman de- 
cided him upon declining these with thanks. 

After the ceremony Mr. Barnard said, “ It’s an 
exceedingly dark night, and rough walking down 
the hill. Ill bear you company as far as the 
town, and talk over our matter of business. My 
respected partner has ascertained something emi- 
uently important from Sir Claude himself, which 
I know you will feel interested in hearing.” 

“T shall think it kind, Sir; but it is taking 
you out on an unpleasant evening.” 

“Oh, don’t think of it, I beg. Dm sure, to be 


of the slightest service will be a pleasure. There 
will be a particular satisfaction attending. it. 
You are sure you won’t take a little whiskey be- 
fore turning out into the cold ?” 

“Thank you, I never take it.” 


“Then I do, always; so you'll excuse me?” 


Mr. Cheffinger bowed with grave politeness to 
Mr. Barnard, and Mr. Barnard bowed with grave 
politeness to Mr. Cheffinger; and Mr. Barnard 


took a little whiskey, explaining pleasantly : ‘‘ My 


sympathy with Ireland is extreme, my regard for 
Scotland uncommon. I blend my national love 
in capital spirits, singing Gop sAvE THE QUEEN! 
Come, Sir Dickson, we will venture, and if you 


would see the lovely lanes of Devon at their most _ 


impressive, see them by this light.” 
‘““And why am I excluded from this artist’s 
stroll?” It was Sir Kinnaird, who sauntered 


negligently in, equipped for walking, gracefully 
collected, and not troubling to notice the scowl 
upon the pleasant face of Mr. Barnard. 

“Never knew you turn out this time of night 
before,”’ muttered the secretary. 

“Well, the fact is, I never had so much occa- 
sion. The last friends of poor Lionel Travers 
came and went by daylight. Er—Simmons— 
just walk behind with my stick; it is too heavy 
for pleasant company. Now, Sir Dickson Chef- 
finger, your arm.” 

. —>—-. 


CHAPTER IX. 
APOTHEOSIS OF THE FELINE. 


Looxine out of the window of her tasteful 
breakfast-room, Mrs. Vincent saw the postman 
approaching; and it was characteristic of this 
charming person that in lieu of becoming flurried 
with expectancy, as are some good folk upon re- 


gown, and proceeded with directions respecting 


dinner, with commissions to the trading estab- — 
, lishments having the honor to serve the Mistress 


ing a variety of excellent trifles from the epicu- ~ 


ceipt of an expected missive, she merely placed the — 
crested trifle in the pocket of her neat morning — 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


of the Cottage, with instructions for the gardener, 
and a message to the laundryman, and a variety 
of incidental matters connected with home rule 
which the lady was far too methodical and sys- 
tematic to neglect for the reading of letters. 
But when all was neatly arranged and in perfect 
order, she did sit down for a quiet quarter of an 
hour over the letter to her hand that day. It 
bore the crest of the Lindons upon the seal, and 
she cut round this, not because she had waited 


-sO many years for the coming of this crested 


thing, but that the seal might be copied smaller 
for her own use. 

“There is no telling how soon I may need to 
write letters signed Anna Lindon,” said this far- 
seeing diplomatist curtly to herself. ‘The mid- 
dle class use monograms, and the twisting of 
initials is not in accord with my notions of reg- 
ularity. I like a good honest crest; something 
awe-inspiring to the vulgar, something those with- 
out the pale can not imitate. All my life ve hank- 
ered after a crest. I’ve gone carefully back as 
far in our pedigree as it is safe to go, for some- 
where one of us departed this life for sheep-steal- 
ing. I have stirred up our ancestors prudently, 
disinterred old records, inclusive of black-profiled 
eminence and worth, and some coverless Bibles, 
valuable for their registry sheets, and I am sor- 
ry to say our people were inferior, in point of 
caste, of reputation, and of morals, and I have 
been quite unable to discover sign or symbol, 
bird or beast, capable of being construed into a 
respectable crest. It is time there was one in the 
family, if there ever is to be one. Let me but 
possess this haughty device of the Lindons, and 
Pu—Tll embroider my night-cap all over ‘with 
it.” 

Smiling pleasantly, the widow leisurely yet all 
daintily removed the letter from its sheath. 

At the first glance she saw the writing was 
tremulously done—excitable penmanship, strokes 


recklessly darting hither and thither, letters that, 


seemed dashed broadcast, words of lunatic wild- 
ness, helter-skelter above and below their line, 
blurred, misplaced interjections, and a troubled 
surface inexpressibly sad. She had gone through 
his books so often, the fluent, manly hand was 
familiar as any writing in her possession ; but this 
was not of the same. There was riven, smitten, 
anguished dismay and grief underlying it; there 
was the passion of instant emergency, the half- 
paralyzed confronting of some deadly peril. 

She read it again and again with a wonderful 
relish and a little approving lady-like smile. 


“My Frrenp,—I did not expect so soon to 
write you sorrowing. I dare not think of the 
decision you arrived at when considering my 
Lena’s portrait. How your heart will thrill with 
sympathy upon reading that I am bereft of my 
darling. I returned to find her fled from here, 
whither no one knows, and all my efforts thus 
far fail of discovery. I am so stricken by this 
blow I can scarcely write with sequence. You will 
pardon this. Ah, my friend, how little I con- 


templated this new great misfortune when we 


- grateful. 


talked of that which has been, since my last 
trouble, the one consolation of life! Your friend- 
ly clasp of the hand was very welcome to me; 
the expression of your solicitude will now be as 
We agreed upon this interchange, or 
I would not intrude my sorrow upon your notice, 


51 


and I have told you the story; its sequel will 
grieve you. Ever faithfully, Linpon.” 


“Not exactly, my lord. I think it serves you 
thoroughly well right. A pretty thing, if all the 
men in the land were to do as you have done, 
when they ought to get lawfully rid of their wives 
and provide for the widows! Well, Lorry, my 
beautiful, roguish Lorry, will have less travelling 
to do. I'll walk to Seaborough and telegraph 
him that a letter is on the road. Only to think 
of this now! Is it not wonderful how things 
work round? It’s a complete piece of fortune ; 
his heart will be so tenderly prepared for that to 
come. And the men are clearing off: next week 
the furnishers will be here, and a month—a 
month—and my queenly traitress, clinging so 
boldly to this honored name and title, will be 
here. Nowlet methink. What’sthetime?—9. 15. 
At 10 a train to town; good! That friendly wel- 
come clasp of hand shall be repeated, the solici- 
tude so grateful shall be expressed. Leave him 
to the friendly solicitude of that Mrs. Brandon, 
and sit here patient another ten long years 
while this attentive, thoughtful sympathizer ful- 
fills the mission I should be engaged upon? Not 
quite. Run up stairs and put your things on, 
Anna, and waive the unpleasantness of travelling 
alone; this immediate necessity does not come 
every day. We're going to penetrate this board- 
ed retreat, and demolish Madame Brandon and 
the rest.” 

And in her chamber, at an elegant little writ- 
ing-desk always kept there, she wrote this note 
to Lorry: 


““My pear Boy,—A hurried line to tell you 
the pretty bird has flown; this will relieve you 
of preliminary difficulty. Of course she is in 
London—they always fly thither—but I shall gain 
further information in a day or two, when I will 
write you again. I hope you are very good, and 
working very hard, yet sparing leisure to think 
sometimes of your fond and loving mother. 

“P.S.—Be very careful in the great city where 
there are so many temptations. Remember your 
dear mother’s precepts and example, and be very 
particular. 

‘““P.P.S.—Be sure and keep your eyes open in 
the streets, and if you see a pretty girl any thing 
at all resembling the portrait, speak to cat my 
darling, speak to her.” 


She then habited herself in the chaste cos- 
tume reserved for travelling, no outrageous style 
for the attracting of notice upon the platforms, 
but a useful yet becoming fashion in quiet color, 
the design of which would mix in the crowd with- 
out winning attention, yet if observed would be 
admired for its taste. 

Then, the maid bearing a small bag, the lady 
proceeded across the Green and along the village 
street, and Sleperton wondered with a mighty - 
wonder. Then by way of Seaborough Old Town, 
and at dinner that day there was great concern 
in Seaborough Old Town. Then through Sea- 
borough to the station, and a thrill went the 
length of township. 

The neat maid, having received specific injunc- 
tions, quitted her mistress, that lady betaking her- 
self to the telegraph office, where she see ielattys 
this message to her son: 


52 


“Take no. steps until hearing from me. Let- 
ter on the road, Meanwhile make use of your 
time in London.” 


By the ten-o’clock train for town this business- 
like person followed in the wake of her telegram. 
Upon arrival she checked the desire to take a 
cab to Lorry’s and chance his being at home, 
and instructed the man to drive instead to King’s 
Cross. Twenty-five minutes to wait for starting 
of a train to the north. And she fretted at that, 
sitting upon a seat on the platform, following 
joining of the boards with her umbrella, looking 
up slyly from below the long lashes at the men 
and women walking up and down, and saying to 
herself: “‘My future husband will eclipse them 
all.” 

It was slow. She walked to the* book-stall 
and looked at the books, a very favorite occupa- 
tion, more so than buying. She read a little love- 
bit from this, and a little love-bit from that, and 
skimmed the cream of half a dozen, as encour- 
agement. She looked at all the pictures, much 
taken by the scene where a very neat and lady- 
like person stood at an altar with a handsome 
fellow uncommonly like Lord Harold; and final- 
ly purchasing one that took her fancy, was ab- 
sorbed for the remainder of the journey. And 
then commenced the memorable advance upon 
St. Aubyn’s Fortress. Whither we will precede 
the widow, to learn how matters are progressing. 

It appeared as though Mrs. Brandon was mak- 
ing considerable progress; indeed, her softly so- 
licitous manner and invariable composure did 
exercise a species of soothing effect, and her con- 
dolence, never obtrusive, always well-timed, if 
not consoling, was at least not displeasing. 

Mr. Arden drove over every day, and although 
he had been unable to throw any light on the 
mysterious affair (he was ignorant of that en- 
counter by the garden), yet the visits of his kind 
old friend helped to sustain St. Aubyn, who rec- 
ognized the deep sympathy prompting the daily 
attention, and, more than this, the spiritual sup- 
port delicately placed in its fairest and most be- 
nign light. 

One thing may be noted. Mr. Arden did not 
credit Martha Saxe with having any hand in Miss 
St. Aubyn’s disappearance. 

The old pastor’s love of Mrs. Brandon was not 
increased; but as St. Aubyn’s was one of those 
fine natures disliking above. all things any insin- 
uation levelled at those in his. employ, the ques- 
tion was avoided; and as the. lady seldom favored 
the pastor with a glimpse of her. black and white 
presence, she did not cause him, personally, any 
discomfort or inconvenience, 

To say that St. Aubyn had; by any degree over- 
come the loss of his treasure would be to make 
an erroneous admission; the dull, benumbing pain 
was present like a canker; especially when alone 
did the terrible consciousness prostrate him. 
Hence imperceptibly yet most certainly did he 
find some beneficial result accrue from, the soci- 
ety of Mrs. Brandon. 

He knew that she had removed every thing 
that would remind him of Lena, and, by remind- 
ing, cause him untold anguish, and he thought 
this very kind of her. She never alluded by so 
much as a word to the child; had changed the 
room where they partook of meals ; had removed 
the garden chair whereon the beautiful princess 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


had been wont to read reclining in the sun, in 
order that it should not be within sight from the 
windows ; had made another bed-chamber luxuri- 
ous for St. Aubyn, transferring furniture, and 
having fires there daily, with intent he should 
not have to pass er chamber door; had folded 
the lion-skins whereon the romp had been used 
to roll, and stored them far away in a distant gar- 
ret, peppered and brown-papered, for Hortense, 
who was privately making all arrangements for 
assuming the mistress-ship per matrimony, had 
no thought or intention of allowing valuable 
skins, or “wild beast hides,” as she termed them, 
to become a prey to that lively insect the moth. 
And all that she did was appreciated by St. 
Aubyn, as such deeds are by those laboring with 
some horrible sorrow and striving to be brave 
when all the time one’s very sinews seem parting 
beneath the strain. He was not one of those 
who can break away from sorrow by a frantic 
descent upon the whirling pleasure of a metro- 
politan season, nor of those who go rushing off 
to Norway or some entirely new tract where they 
may, perchance, forget. There was no happy , 
Lethe from which this man might drink, no me- 
penthe that would assuage his grief. Yet even 
as we are grateful to the hand held kindly forth, 
bearing the cooling draught when low with fever, 
he was grateful for the forethought of this wom- 
an. And each day waited issue of the skill of 
those his gold had sent upon pursuit; the first 
talent in the detective department, chief experts 
at tracking those daily disappearing, master- 
craftsmen upon trail, ay, human blood-hounds, 
the prime reserve of the leading private-inquiry 
offices, those subtle and swift as hawks and as 
certain, and the most clever men Scotland Yard 
could furnish. And with these alert and active, 
these spreading a net from bound to bound of the 
huge city, these applying their utmost ability, 
spurred by the enormous reward offered, and 
proposed to be doubled should the child be 


brought to him within three days—encourage- 


ment such as the oldest detective could not re- 
member—could more be done? No, he admitted 
not. He was not fitted for entering upon any 
portion of the search himself—such occupation 
would have been loathsome, strong as his love 
was—but by all other means it was possible to 
think of without his own personal action did he 
testify to the intensity of his painful interest in 
this grave pursuit. 

Mrs. Brandon knew something of it all, but 
nothing like the extent to which operations had 
been carried ; she yet knew sufficient to cause 
her unlimited disgust, and to again and again re- 


peat to herself that query of so vital moment— 


‘Whatever is there in the chit to warrant all 
the fuss ?” 

Eminently cautious, the lady placed before her- 
self the contingency —it was scarcely probable, 
but one never knows what those clever ones may 


unearth—of Lena’s being restored; how would ~~ 


it affect herself? Well, this would just depend 
upon the sort of construction the child would put 
upon her (Mrs. Brandon’s) conduct. She, of course, 
in the event of such an accident, must appear the 
most delighted in the house at her return, must 
greet her with excess of affection that would out- 
shine even the welcome of St. Aubyn himself. 
She was not demonstrative; no, she was not de- 
monstrative; but to save her neck could exceed 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


her habitual enthusiasm. But, in good sooth, the 
lady calculated upon a very different termination 
to this. If Miss Lena St. Aubyn did not look out, 
as she scornfully said to herself over that precious 
face within her locket, she would return to find 
papa had taken a mamma, and then let Miss Lena 
St. Aubyn see which way the wind blew! 

Mrs. Brandon could tell as quickly as any one, 
and quicker than most people, the leaning and 
bearing of temperament and disposition, and she 
remarked, with quiet gratification, how that poor 
wounded soul, yearning for solace, inclined to her 
devilish sympathy. (A spade is never more nec- 
essarily called a spade than when under the con- 
ditions of hypocritical solicitude.) 

It was a time of supreme anxiety with Mrs. 
Brandon—a time when she felt it incumbent to 
make hay while the sun was behind a cloud. Ac- 
cordingly upon an evening when St. Aubyn was 
sitting moodily smoking his hookah, trying to fix 
his attention upon publications of the Presidencies 
recently to hand, and failing lamentably ; looking 
with disconsolate pain around that sumptuous in- 
terior where, monarch, he was more unhappy than 
the most wretched of those carvers in jet whose 
cotiages flanked the pastoral field of his old 
clerical friend ; sitting alone, reviewing vast sor- 
rows and mighty griefs that oppressed the soul 
as by leaden weights, reviewing astonishing joys 
that strung them like jewels, or the more splen- 
did beams of radiant dreams that quiver by us but 
a moment and are gone, and with all the retro- 
spect endeavoring to catch up shreds which might 
betoken hope—although he felt with intense bit- 
terness that, even did his child return, it would 
be no longer the Lena of old; and he was in the 
depth of this sorrowing reverie when there came 
a gentle tap upon the door, an exquisitely gentle 
tap, which the most wounded of hearts would not 
resent. It was Mrs. Brandon, with her thought- 
ful— 

“T feared you might be feeling dull, Sir, and I 
venture to ask if I shall have a fire lighted, and 
the large candles.” 

“You are very good. I have no objection.” 

And, of course, while this was proceeding it 
was natural she should quietly sit down to work, 
watching operations. Natural that, by accident, 
she should continue sitting, continue working, 
watching operations. Apparently he did not re- 
mark her presence; the clouds, fragrant as the 
pertumed water through which they had passed, 
wreathed about him, almost hiding the handsome 
face. She very gently proceeded with her needle- 


work—a delicately slender needle, conveying the: 


finest cotton through the softest muslin manu- 
factured—and very gently coughed. A denser 
cloud, a slight jerk at the silver bowl. Slowly 
the eyelids of the black and white lady lifted, 
serenely the fingers plied, while the keen eyes 
travelled round the drawing-room, where the pan- 
elled graining, the tracery of gold, the glistening 
rafters upon the golden-studded ceiling, were dim 
and beclouded. There was a lull, a hush, and 
she did not cough again. {t was the season for 
speaking. 

With voice so low it rather soothed than dis- 
turbed, stealing in and out those clouds, and not 
by a breath agitating the most sensitive, sweet- 
ened even by the transit, turned with a gentle- 
ness insinuating and subtle, burdened with a per- 
fect well of sympathy, and by very modulation 


53 


of its hesitative utterance, the half-apology re- 
quired by the intrusion, it was thus she com- 
menced : 

“JT do trust not to be thought insensible, Mr, 
St. Aubyn, to the finer feelings if I venture to 
hope that your mind may be set at rest before 
very long ; it pains me more than words can tell 
to see you so melancholy and dispirited, your 
peace destroyed, your health suffering—that health 
soprecious.” A little pause here, just long enough 
to give him opportunity for reply, if so minded. 
There was noreply. “ All right,” she said to her- 
self, “perhaps he’ll speak presently ;”’ and she 
continued: ‘I shall appear very bold, but to me 
it seems a grievous injustice to yourself. Of 
course I know lettle of the story of your life, riev- 
er having been one to enjoy the privilege of your 
confidence, but I am able to fathom much of it, 
and my heart bleeds for your past. More so than 
for the present, because Lena, dear rebel, had such 
thoroughly Bohemian tendencies.” 

“Not a word about Lena, if you please, Mrs. 
Brandon.” Her champion even in her faithless- 
ness. 

“Not a word is said against our darling; I but 
mention her name in tenderness; and although 
your wounded heart forbids assent, you yet feel I 
speak the candid truth, and with the solicitude of 
a mother, Ah! had but that dear child a moth- 
er, some presiding guidance and governance in 
the household, what a wealth of love might be de- 
veloped in that young bosom !” 

“You will excuse me,” said St. Aubyn, with 
grave displeasure ; “ her love needs no developing. 
I am satisfied her love for myself is perfect.” 

“T am sure of it,” replied the quiet woman, 
with decision; “it is what I so much admire in 
her. I simply allude to the centring of that love. 
I need not tell yourself, of course well acquainted 
with our sex, that the love of a child of Miss 
Lena’s age is a very different thing to that solemn 
and sublime feeling entertained by some staid 
and spiritual woman whose life is passed partly 
upon this earth and partly in a higher and better 
sphere altogether; one who, like yourself, may 
have known trouble, sorrow, treachery, and per- 
fidy ; one like yourself, with wound barely heal- 
ed, yet one whose moral strength confers resigna- 
tion, whose calm patience bestows unending peace. 
Such is the mother our dear, dear child needs at 
her age so much. Happy the child who can lay 
her head back upon this mother’s bosom, and 
whisper all her love for parent-guardian-friend !”” 
This was spoken with plaintive earnestness, the 
very tone carrying conviction of the speaker’s 
sincerity and disinterestedness. She was think- 
ing, “That ought to do it,” when Williams ap- 
peared, rather flurried, and making signs to some 
person in the shadow—-signs evidently the said per- 
son refused to recognize, for, advancing with con- 
siderable elegance and grace of movement, the re- 
doubtable Anna Vincent confronted Hortense 
Brandon. 

St. Aubyn arose with pleasure, and immediate- 
ly gave his hand to the widow, who, saying to 
herself, ‘“‘ High time I came, I think !” bowed very 
graciously, while her friend introduced the ladies 
one to another. 

‘““Mrs. Brandon, of whom you have heard me 
speak with esteem. My friend Mrs. Vincent—an 
old friend,” said with that polish no term of se- 
clusion will eradicate. The quick, restless eyes 


54 


of the widow met the hard black orbs of St. Au- 
byn’s sympathizer, and, as expected, found her- 
self well matched. A very duel between these 
principals in finesse and state-craft was imminent. 
The widow administered a blow to begin with— 

“T thought the most satisfactory way of reply- 
ing to your letter was by acknowledging it in per- 
son.” 

The adversary moved a step back, the black 
silk of her gown emitting a hissing sound, which 
the softer and more noiseless vestments of the 
other, falling fold within fold, seemed to despise 
as a trick, and ignore accordingly. 

“This is quite an unexpected pleasure,” re- 
plied St. Aubyn, with marked cordiality; ‘ but 
however did you find the way to our remote and 
out-of-the-world retreat ?”’ 

““ Well, you know where there is a will there 
is a way—at least one has to be made.” And 
with a very charming and playful smile the lady 
removed her bonnet. 

“Mrs. Brandon will show you to a chamber— 
the best our house will furnish, madam—and, be- 
lieve me, I give you hearty welcome into York- 
shire.” 

With her most elegant recognition of his court- 
esy, Mrs. Vincent bowed and expressed her thanks. 

As requested, Mrs. Brandon conducted the vis- 
itor to the most luxurious of the upper chambers. 
When the maid had lighted toilet and other can- 
dles and had retired, Mrs. Brandon, with grave 
and velvety politeness, begged the lady would 
mention any addition to her comfort their house 
could provide. 

‘“‘Many thanks,” said the other, looking round. 
“T think a fire, later on—nothing more.” 

This said the far-seeing woman, because she 
was quite under the conviction the ruling deity 
of this solitary mansion, not being very well able 
to tumble her over the cliff, since she never walk- 
ed upon the edge of any thing, would not hesi- 
tate to put her between damp ‘sheets, and Mrs, 
Vincent was much too partial to elegance of mien 
to brave the possibility of ungainly rheumatism. 

The silk rustled, trailed over the carpet, hissed 
in the doorway framing the never-to-be-forgotten 
face, rigid and colorless as marble, with the brows 
and eyes, once grand features, and even now the 
noticeable point about the presentment; a fault- 
lessly white collar and jet brooch, white cuffs 
meeting over the apron where hands joined as 
by geometric precision ; not a tall woman, scarce- 
ly as tall as her rival, but standing in the door- 
way that instant at her tallest, breathing thick 
and quick as one breathes in sudden exigency, 
and taking in from that position the other stand- 
ing in the glare of lights, youthful-looking, with 
an exquisite bloom on cheek, a fascination of 
manner a heritage of itself, magnificent hair fall- 
ing now unloosed far lower than the waist, a 
blithesome, debonair behavior which, while cap- 
tivating, was eminently well-bred, and a grace of 
deportment striking and prepossessing ; and tak- 
ing this view at a glance, Mrs. Brandon consid- 
ered it a crisis. She was too good a general to 
betray annoyance, and too thorough a designer 
to experience confusion; her tactics were awful- 
ly disconcerted, but she believed she saw through 
it. Her belief came out in this very quiet re- 
mark— 

“T trust, madam, Mr. Noel Barnard, last time 
you heard from him, was very well?” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


The cowp was tremendously sudden, but Mrs, 
Vincent was too consummate an artist and too 
habitually prepared for any side thrust to be tak- 
en unawares. With perfect simplicity and par- 
ticular frankness she replied: 

“Last time I heard of that astonishing being 
he was very well. You are interested in Mr. 
Noel Barnard ?” ; ; 

“Yes, ma’am, I am, and in any friend of his.” 
Having said which with exasperating effect, the 
quiet lady, with a mock courtesy, retired, closing 
the door gently. 

*‘ As sure as my name is Anna Vincent, this is 
a pretty kettle of fish, an uncommonly deep move 
of Noel’s—keeping himself acquainted with my 
lord’s actions through this demure piece of goods!” 

She looked leisurely round the apartment, in 
the drawers, in the wardrobe, inspected the-rare 
ornaments upon the mantel, examined the texture 
of fabrics and upholstery, admired the bed-fittings, 
criticised pictures upon the walls, felt the weight 
of the thick curtains by the window, scrutinized 
the lace upon the pillows, noticed the stitching of 
the eider-down quilts, and, lastly, looked at her- 
self in the great cheval-glass, remarking to the 
reflection there presented : 

“Tf any thing, Anna, you look the better for 
the journey; it’s the keen wind. I declare my 
cheeks tingle now, but I do trust my nose isn’t 
red! Now mind your p’s and q’s, and bear in 
remembrance the Lindon crest.” 

She rejoined the master. The pale lady was 
at her work. 

“You will take some refreshment 2” asked St. 
Aubyn. 

“ Nothing, thanks, until your regular meals. 
What a delightful place you have here, up stairs 
and down !”” 

“Yes, it serves to pass life away in, or has 
served.” Said with pathetic sadness. “I hope 
your son is very well ?” 

“Very well last time I heard from him. He 
is still in town. Lorry would like to see your 
pictures.” 

“They are of little value; a few sketches made 
in the East.” 

“They are very beautiful. Do you not think 
so, madam?” The lady addressed looked up from 
her work, and— 

“T think all Mr. St. Aubyn’s drawings evince 
unusual talent, madam.” 

‘“‘May I see your books ?” (eagerly interested.) 
“ But no, it is taking you into the cold,” (deeply 
solicitous.) “Some other time—to-morrow morn- 
ing.” . 
‘“‘Nay,” said the scholarly recluse, rising and 
leading the way to his collection, “we are not so 
indolent as all that, I hope. You will not find 
them as considerable as the library you are ac- 
customed to,.but such as we have are of value.” 
And he preceded the lady, opening the door of 
an apartment upon the opposite side of the hall. 
She had proposed this, hoping for a little private 
conference, but upon looking over her shoulder, 
saw the silent lady had followed them like a 
shadow. Without appearing the least in the way, 
or in any degree as interested, Mrs. Brandon was 
gently closing shutters, lighting tapers, brushing 
a speck or two of dust from one or other of the 
richly bound volumes, with other unofficious move- 
ments sufficient plea "for her presence. 

Mrs. Vincent leisurely inspected the books with 


= 


= 
- 
ee 


_A MODERN MINISTER. 


much interest, but the pale lady did not seem to 
go, and after a while the visitor asked : 

“Have you any music? Of course you would 
have.” 

“We have an organ, and—a—harp,” by an ef- 
fort, the eyes of both watching keenly. 

“Dear me, how long it is since I played upon 
the organ! Not since the patron of our church 
and village went abroad.” Mrs. Brandon noticed 
the man’s face flush at that. 

“T could not now play before any one, or I 
would ask you to let me see if I have quite forgot- 
ten those chants I at one time loved so well.” 
Mrs. Brandon quietly left the room. 


pe Sa 


CHAPTER X. 
A QUESTION OF PROPRIETY. 


PeRHAPS no one in town enjoyed the esteem of 
his- fellows with more legitimate right than Sir 
Horace Vivian. The family was super-stainless ; 
quarterings on the arms outrivalled each other 
in spotless associations; never a lineage came 
out so dazzling with pure antecedents ; not a rep- 
resentative noble in Burke more stringent upon 
decorum. The Vivian household was indeed of 
unparalleled propriety. Of course to hope for a 
definition of the improper at the hands of Sir 
Horace would be vain; he really did not know 
what it was. Where would be found daughters 
reared with the exemplary care bestowed upon 
the Misses Vivian, most of whom had been train- 
ed in Edinburgh (where they also possessed a 
mansion), a sufficient guarantee of the discipline 
exercised? Where a man more aptly realizing 
the old legends of a perfect husband or model 
father? This was well known. For the sake of 
her health, Lady Vivian resided in Nice; for the 
sake of his health, Sir Horace remained in Lon- 
don, yet no one could have continued to adhere 
to that code observed when her ladyship was pres- 
ent more closely than did Sir Horace. From the 
eldest to the youngest of them, the Vivian family, 
and every member thereof, and every connection 
of every member, together with the particular 
friends of the connection, were the pink of pro- 
priety. 

“One can not be too discreet,”. said Sir Horace, 
and he really thought so. 

Thus one of the prudent actions contingent 
upon this habitual foresight was the advertising 
for an extremely refined and lady-like person to 
take the charge of his daughters when at home 
or upon their travels. 

The result was the engagement of a lady em- 
phatically answering to the description, who 
pleased Sir Horace extremely from first seeing 
her. With every desirable grace, an evident wish 
to please, gentle manners, a slight melancholy 
which, without being depressing, was fraught with 
winning sweetness, and an amiableness of dis- 
position that won all their hearts, this was the in- 
valuable companion now added to the establish- 
ment. 

The lady’s references and testimonials, signed 
by the manager of a leading bank, were perfectly 
satisfactory, and Mrs. Esther Thompson, widow, 
entered at once upon her duties. 

To the lady’s great surprise (and secret sorrow) 


55 


had been engaged; but she was so glad to secure 


-|this home and very liberal salary offered by 


Sir Horace, and liked the ladies of his household 
so well, the half idea of resigning it at once was 
overruled. 

And with courier and two maids in attendance 
the party left town for Nice. 

- After they had gone, the great house in the 
stately square seemed exceedingly lonely, with 
closed rooms, diminished servants, a general si- 
lence, and that deserted aspect such buildings 
wear when the family is away. 

At first Sir Horace did not mind, for he was 
behindhand with his Quarterlies, and availed 
himself of the quiet to recover time. A great 
reader, Sir Horace was yet as particular in his 
literary choice and as judicious in his critical ap- 
plication as in other things. 

Blinds were down to preserve the carpets, the 
gold and white furniture was incased in holland, 
the conservatory looked dismal as a jungle—the 
glints of blue and crimson glass for the first time 
taking ecclesiastically solemn hue, the guest- 
chambers echoed with hollow, mocking sounds, 
and the broad stairs seemed dead with longing 
for a footstep. 

Sir Horace resolved to close the house and stay 
at his hotel in Dover Street pending the return of 
his daughters, for it was intolerably dull, and he 
was averse to intolerable dullness. Quietness he 
was attached to, but not the other. 

Sir Horace gave his servants leave of absence 
until written for, and allowed them to go that 
day, intending to run down to Brighton by the 
six-o’clock train out of London, and there pass 
the night and following day with an old literary 
friend who resided in Oriental Place. 

But later on the gentleman altered his mind, 
and decided to go down in the morning instead. 
Unfortunately the servants had left for home, 
and Sir Horace was alone, the great house seem- 
ing more dull than ever. However, it was not 
worth going to the hotel for one night, he thought, 
and having a quantity of loose papers about that 
needed sorting, arranging, and removing above- 
stairs, he decided to spend this leisure evening 
upon the task. Sir Horace always performed this 
office himself, having an idea nobody else could 
or would place his papers as he wanted them. 

It was a long operation, and tables and chairs 
were fast disappearing beneath the divided litera- 
ture. 

There was an extract to read back at one place, 
and an article at another, comparison of notes 
between journals, and reference to notes and quo- 
tations of his own, all of which took up time. 
These arranging seasons come pleasantly, possess 
a charm of their own, and the hours slip on when 
thus engaged without much progress being made. 
In the midst, on the carpet, lamp in the centre, 
busts coming out pallid, staring stonily from the 
dusk corners at their ordinarily grave companion 
upon his knees, and up to the neck in fugitive 
learning: a large fire making all as cheerful as 
solitude under the conditions could be. Requiring 
odd numbers to make up the sets, Sir Horace left 
the library for the dining-room. The hall lamp 
caused a tall, monkish shadow to fall upon the 
inlaid coloring. This reminded him he had not 
secured the back offices, and he proceeded upon 
that necessary mission. 


she learned it was as travelling companion also she | The whole of the back premises were covered 


56 A MODERN MINISTER. 


over; the spacious yard opened by the tradesmen’s 
entrance to a lane bounded by the square mews; 
lamps were lighted here after dark, and the police 
were vigilant. Thus Sir Horace was more than 
surprised to discover a little girl asleep upon 
the door-step of the servants’ entrance. Never 
having been placed in so curious a predicament, 
he stood before the foundling hesitating upon the 
course to pursue, wondering whatever his friends 
would think, could they but see him in so embar- 
rassing a position. What to do he really did not 
know. To summon the police would be to create 
some scandal, from which he shrank as from the 


ful emergency as this. A clothes-prop was lean- 
ing to a wall, and by its grateful aid Sir Horace 
awakened the gentle sleeper, keeping at a respect- 
able distance. The child awoke upon the instant, 
as though accustomed to uncertain waking. There 
was but little light, yet sufficient to convey to the 
scrupulous baronet there was nothing to be very 
alarmed at. The child rising, stood respectfully, 
ready to tend her simple explanation. 

“Little girl,” said Sir Horace, kindly, “you 
have gone to bed in a strange place. Will you 
tell me how you come to be asleep in my yard, if 
you please?” 


{i --—\ 
a 
Bae 
UN 


gro 


—— iE: 
= FEAL 
LL 


SK 


Figs 


“HE STOOD BEFORE THE FOUNDLING HESITATING UPON THE COURSE TO PURSUE.” 


plague; to smuggle the innocent down the lane 
and hence would, in the event of his being de- 
tected, draw some unpleasant suspicion upon him- 
self, and he was so very particular. He never 
was so unpleasantly placed in all his life, and the 
shades of a long line of prim and proper Vivians 
seemed peering upon him in this stupendous di- 
lemma. 

To be voluntarily cruel was contrary to his in- 
stincts. He felt glad that he was at least a fam- 
ily man, and really understood the decorous 
treatment of a female child, even in such an aw- 


This, then, was Sir Horace Vivian, and Ella’s 
heart throbbed violently. She had hoped, when 
stealing up this back way, after the long walk 
following her escape, that one of the servants of 
the mansion would tell her if Mrs. Thompson 
was within; she was of far too heroic a stamp to 
divulge relationship, or disclose it was her moth- 
er she had come to seek; and how eagerly she 
had trusted that dear parent might be there! 
She had meant, without distressing her by a de- 
scription of what had occurred, to say she had ac- 
companied a man to London who promised to see 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


her to Mr. Percival’s, intending to remain there 
until her mother came, and how the man had 
failed of his promise; and remembering Sir Hor- 
ace Vivian’s name, she had found out the way by 
asking, and had come for but a glimpse. This 
was the guileless scheme to save her mother ter- 
ror and distress, following upon which she would 
let Mr. George Percival take her back to the 
farm. But it had all been postponed by her find- 
ing the whole place silent and apparently empty. 
Utterly overcome by-this new misfortune—and 
it was much for this tender one to realize—she 
had sat down upon the door-step, crying bitterly ; 
then, tired out and wearied beyond measure, she 
had gone off to sleep in the dim twilight, lulled 
by the city’s hum. 

So, then, this was Sir Horace Vivian. 

He looked kind and noble. She did not, after 
the first effect of surprise, feel very afraid of him; 
indeed, she thought she could love this benign and 
 pleasant-featured gentleman. With a prettiness 
of manner that won upon him instantly, she ac- 
counted for the singularity of her being there. 

She had come from the country, had not been 
certain of the address where her mother lived, 
had been lost, found her way thither, had knock- 
ed, hoping one of the servants would kindly give 
her a piece of bread and butter, and finding all 


still and silent, had been overcome by fatigue. 


and hunger, and had sat upon the door-step and 
gone off to sleep. 

’ Her eyes traversed the majesty of the tall gen- 
tleman before her, upward to the kind face she 
was conciliating and making kinder, and she saw 
that her story was told to some purpose. 

“Just stand inside, and let’s have a look in the 
larder; I dare say we can find you a piece of 
bread and butter.” , 

She followed him with docility, he fastening 
up the back offices behind them, with the half- 
muttered remark, ‘‘Whatever we do we shall 
not go out this way.” 

In the housekeeper’s room he placed the lamp 
on the table, and transfixed the trespasser with 
a most magisterial look. She did not quail, and 
moreover was exceedingly beautiful. 

“T can not say you look as abashed as you 
might do,” he said. Whereat she smiled, and 
with such show of confidence the inflexible bar- 
onet thawed with uncommon rapidity. 

“It seems to me you are in about as miserable 
a plight as could well be; I am exceedingly sor- 
ry for you. In the first place, let us see what our 
larder will provide, after which you’ will be in 
better spirits for talking over what is to be ‘done, 
a question, I confess, I don’t know how to decide 
upon, becatfse to allow you to. go out for the pur- 
pose of knocking at people’s doors asking for 
your mother is absurd. I’m sure I don’t know 
what to advise or how to act.” 

Meantime the region of provision was discov- 
ered—new ground to Sir Horace, equally with the 
object of his compassion. The refectory was lib- 
erally stored, and Ella was soon deep in the mys- 
tery of hare-pie, following this up by cheese-cakes. 

This ceremony performed to their mutual satis- 
faction, it became no longer prudent to shirk the 
serious matter of the child’s disposal, and Sir 
Horace looked reflectively in the beautiful eyes ; 
in all his life he had never-seen any thing so 
beautiful. 

He wondered, what if he took her with him 


57 


and helped the search in person? Not to be 
thought of. Suppose it was to leak out, what 
construction would people put upon it? What 
if he obtained for her a nice quiet room, in some 
nice quiet house, kept by some nice quiet couple ? 
That class of person always knows some one who 
is acquainted with somebody else who is con- 
nected with whomever one would most keep any 
thing from. Negatived accordingly. Suppose 
they did try the back way, and eloped via the 
mews? Always somebody prying about; looks 
bad; summary of the very vulgar; most shock- 
ing fate that can befall one. Declined in conse- 
quence. Poor Ella! Did she but know all the 
commotion her small life had caused in.one quar- 
ter and another, she must inevitably sfrink into 
the earth, abashed. 

Something else weighed with Sir Horace. There 
was an air about this-child indicative of gentle 
birth and delicate rearing, and the idea of expel- 
ling her was hurtful to his finer feelings. To cast 
her adrift upon the great city seemed barbarous. 
He felt for this little friendless one, and, as rep- 
resenting a knightly race, would serve her in this 
peril-time, and per fas et nefas make her at all 
events happy and at rest for the time being. 

“You shall not turn out to-night. There are 
twenty unoccupied rooms in this house, and it is 
odd if youscan not have one of them. <I don’t 
think” (musing) “‘ there would be any impropriety 
in it. I don’t quite like the idea of it, but I see 
no other course.” 

She looked so innocent and unconscious of im- 
propriety herself, he felt half annoyed with him- 
self at the thought. 

Inviting her to accompany him to the library, 
chivalrous Sir Horace proceeded thither, closely 
followed by his fragile companion. 

She picked her way daintily in and out the an- 
cient tomes, and looked down upon the litter 
with a respect that pleased him vastly. 

‘“‘T dare say you never saw so many books and 
papers before, my child ?” 

“T think poor papa had quite as many.” 

“Oh, ho!” thought Sir Horace; “the daughter 
of a littérateur. I like her all the better for that.” 

He placed a hassock by the fire, and enthroned 
thereon with a volume of prints the child looked 
very much at home. He liked her being there ; 
the place seemed to have lost its dullness; she 
lent happier furnishing to his room. It was so 
long since any of his were little, it was like a re- 
vival of paled pleasure, and his eyes often wan- 
dered over to the fire. He had not expected a 
companion for his lonely evening, still less one 
of this innocent degree. 

Presently she laid down her volume and went: 
over to him. 

“Can I not help you?” Asked quietly, look- 
ing down upon him still kneeling; and it was 
with considerable surprise he found her drop 
upon hands and knees and look up into his grave 
face for answer. He liked her artlessness, her 
winsomeness ; he was pleased with her readiness 
to be of use; and very soon Ella was busiest of 
the two, sorting, piling, numbering, dating, with 
a quickness and tact surprising as it was pleas- 
ing. 
Asideaties it was all over Sir Horace recurred 
to the vexing difficulty of where to place her. He 
scarcely liked to take liberties with his daughters’ 
apartments, over which they were exceedingly par- 


58 A MODERN MINISTER. 


ticular, while the guest-chambers would be very 
cold and cheerless ; but saying, ‘“‘ Carry this light 
for me, and come‘up Stairs, that we may see if a 
nest is to be found for you until to-morrow,” he 
stalked up the broad flight, mailed armor of his 
ancestors ominous upon its stages. Past grim 
chambers, splendid and silent, past lofty windows, 
past diverging corridors, past the more humble 
section of sleeping-rooms; then waste wardrobe 
rooms, a retreat for a few choice flowers, a cham- 
ber where odd pictures and objects of art dis- 
placed and out of date were stowed away, and 
through this a small room, of which Sir Horace 
alone possessed the right of entrance, a diminu- 
tive sanctum sanctorum, atelier and study in one; 
a miniatifre boudoir where its owner sat at his 
easel, wrote at his desk, or slept on his couch at 
will, and always undisturbed—a great boon. 
Whenever it was known papa was closeted in his 
compact little retreat, nobody ventured an intru- 
sion. He was particular as to privacy at such 
seasons, and upon his retiring from their world 
for a little quiet thought alone, his family re- 
spected the whim and left him. in glorious soli- 
tude. And in this fanciful little anteroom he 
proposed housing his charge with other articles 
of virtu. 

“Well, will it do?” (she was looking around 
admiringly). ‘But a doll’s house, yet large 
enough to cradle lost fairies like yourself.” 

Blushingly she thanked him with a warmth 
that made him feel quite young again. She was 
a little too big to lift to a kiss, but he came down 
to her rosy beauty. 

“Now mind, you are not to sit up all night 
looking at these pretty things, and don’t go to 
sleep and burn the house down.” 

She looked up in his face timidly, yet with 
sweet show of confidence, 

“‘T would rather come down stairs where you 
are, and sleep upon the rug before the fire.” 

_ “Oh, that’s it, is it? But you would not wish 
me to sit up all night to keep the fire in ?” 

“T thought, perhaps, you might be sitting up 
late arranging your papers.” The tone of voice 
betrayed her sorrow for the unintentional selfish- 
ness. 

He noticed it, and said, kindly, “‘So I shall, my 
child ; and if you would rather be down stairs, you 
may do so.’”’ Certainly she could nestle with his 
dog afront the fire. 

They went down stairs again after that. It 
was singular, but the house no longer seemed the 
lonesome place it was before. He was as cheer- 
ful as when his own dear little girls had made all 
its corners musical. 

She was very tired, and it was not long before 
she was sleeping, head pillowed upon his dog, 
face turned to the flickering light, ears still catch- 
ing at the crackling log he had placed on the fire 
to please her. 

The reader will courteously observe there is 
nothing of the romantic about this episode: a 
pretty child asleep in the library of one of the 
most particular of gentlemen, whose five grown- 
up daughters ought at the outset to preserve him 
from any suspicion of acting with indiscretion in 
the matter of thus giving shelter to the homeless ; 
but when to this we add the hedging in of a rep- 
utation by a body-guard of thirteen decorous aunts, 
Sir Horace Vivian’s character would seem to be 
pretty safe. 


In addition to which, Sir Horace was so applied 
to literary pursuits, he was not exposed, as are 
many of his peers, to the assailments of a gay and 
thoughtless age. Even in society his circles of ac- 
quaintance were grave, sedate, and intellectual, 
being confined to men who had written, or ought 
to have written, and those who were going to 
write, while his mixing with the opposite sex was 
simply among the bas bleus. 

Now by his acute instincts of propriety being 
susceptible to the least hint of the irregular, upon 
reviewing his conduct, so far from feeling quite 
satisfied therewith, Sir Horace was distinctly ill 
at ease, even under the shadowing protection of 
a strong-minded wife, five grown-up daughters, 
and thirteen scrupulously exact aunts. The cir- 
cumstance, as it had come about, was both prob- 
able and natural; but should any human being get 
scent of it, there was but little doubt that it would 
be construed into something both improbable and 
unnatural; and the Vivian knees knocked one 
against the other with apprehension as he thought 
of the dilemma, did any of his people happen to 
turn up; and we all know the line of rail mis- 
chance runs on. 

But the supreme antidote to these unpleasant 
feelings was afforded by their innocent cause, 
whose grace and beauty pleaded with stronger 
eloquence than any self-reasoning. He stood over 
her, looking down upon the still piece of wax, 
watching the light flushing the roses and gleam- 
ing upon the hair strewn over the glossy black- 
ness of his great dog, and-he thought how beau- 
tiful she looked. He traced the drooping lashes 
and delicately pencilled brows, and the general 
refinement every where apparent, and wondered 
who was her father, her mother, that this should 
be. To his keen and searching gaze there was 
displayed more than the mere beauty ; he read in- 
tellect and understanding ; possibly genius might 
be slumbering there, and he was more than ever 
interested in his young charge and in her parent- 
age. 
Sir Horace returned to the progress of arran- 
ging his journals, and for some time was diligent- 
ly engaged upon the occupation, looking up at 
intervals with a glance at-his dainty volume be- 
fore the fire. Suddenly he paused, stood perfect- 
ly still, and listened; his quick ear had caught 
the sound of a vehicle in the square; no such 
unusual occurrence that it should set his heart 
fluttering thus, but upon this evening his nerves 
seemed all unstrung. He walked a step toward 
the window and heard a second vehicle, a third, 
and at a stride stood behind the curtains, then 
peered through the hinging crevice of the shut- 
ter. The first carriage was close, and the terri- 
ble vision met his alarmed gaze of the angular 
form of Aunt Penelope, where, full in the moon- 
light, she leaned out of the carriage. window, 
directing the driver to the house. The other 
vehicles were in the rear of the first, and, with 
agonized confusion, Sir Horace exclaimed: 

“Good patience, my aunts! All of them? 
What on earth is to be done ?” y 

He knew it was all of them, because one never 
visited unless in company with the other twelve. 
It was a consolidated body, no single member 
of which considered it proper to go about this 
wicked world unattended by as many sisters 


as had been providentially provided for the pro-. 


tection of each. And Sir Horace felt his heart 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


sink, for a more disastrous calamity could not 
have happened. 

“Whatever can have brought them here to- 
night of all nights? How excessively awkward, 
to be sure! I feel so embarrassed I scarcely like 
to receive them. But then they will hammer at 
the door until I open it, and thus create a public 
disturbance and effect an entrance after all. Was 
ever any one so unfortunately situated? If they 
discover her, it will never be forgotten, and good- 
ness knows what may be made of it! It will 
cling to me forever, and after all these years of 
careful conduct will cast a blot upon the spotless- 
ness of our escutcheon. Bother the woman!” 

The somewhat irreverent exclamation being 
caused by a glimpse of the leader of this corps of 
Amazons descending from her chariot, and turn- 
ing to assist others of her band to alight. 

Farcical as the contre-temps may appear, to Sir 
Horace it was a matter of serious moment, and 
he retreated before the toe of his third aunt, 
while the two safely alighted formed in line 
ready for the attack. He took a brief, breathless 
view of the situation, and decided upon the course 
to follow instantly. His charge must be con- 
cealed. 

While there came a tremendous knocking and 
ringing at the door, Sir Horace lifted the child, 
and with every care bore her in his arms up the 
broad steps to that small retreat before mention- 
ed. Quickly as was consistent with comfort, he 
settled her upon the couch, covered her with warm 
clothing, lighted the fire in the bijou grate, and 
left her, locking the door and taking the key, 
and for double safety that of the larger room by 
which access was gained to the tiny chamber. 

Then he proceeded to admit the bevy. 

“How do, nephew? Looking well, I declare. 
We are very pleased to see you, I am sure; but 
dreadfully sorry to be so late. Breakdown on 
one of the lines—gave us a shocking fright. If 
we hadn’t all been together to: keep each other 
up, I don’t know how we should have got through 
it. And how’s Marion? Not gone to bed?” 

“The girls are on the Continent,” said Sir Hor- 
ace, with as much composure as he could call to 
his aid, wishing the aunts there also. 

“Good gracious! You don’t say so! 
sheets aired, Pll be bound !” 

“Tm afraid not, aunt.”” The escutcheoned and 
inhospitable sinner hoped they would go back 
again to those exciting tracks where breakdowns 
are local and probable. 

“Well, we'll soon settle that. Come in, girls. 
It’s fortunate we came ; no idea you were alone.” 

“Excuse my frankness, aunt, but—the servants 
have gone home. I intend shutting the place up 
while Marion is away.” 

*“Nonsense! Donothing of the kind. Horrid 
custom; makes the rooms smell musty. Just take 
my bonnet, Horace, and the reticule; you’ll be 
careful with it, please ?” 

This interchange of parley was upon the thresh- 
old while the force was marshalling, to the dis- 
may of the startled drivers. Aware by old expe- 
rience the great question of settlement with these 
men would devolve upon himself, Sir Horace usher- 
ed them into the housekeeper’s room, and there 
transacted the delicate business with as little noise 
as possible ; it was a class of person of whom Sir 
Horace stood in particular dread. When he came 
forth, not an aunt was to be seen. Closing the 


And no 


59 


door upon their charioteers, he went in pursuit, 
expecting, as he found to be the case, straggling 
expeditions in various directions. Miss Penelope, 
the eldest, he caught trying the door of that ante- 
chamber he had taken the precaution to secure. 

‘‘ Horace, I smell fire; the door is locked; Iam 
convinced something is amiss.” 

“Nothing is amiss, my dear aunt. I am 
obliged to have a fire now and then in my little 
studio, or my treasures would suffer.” 

“T don’t think a married gentleman has any 
business to have treasures locked away in his 
studio; but you were always of that reserved and 
mysterious order of mind, nephew. For my part, 
I excessively dislike any thing being kept from 
family inspection. Wasn’t it the lamented Lord 
Bacon who said, ‘Secrecy is corruption ?’” 

“TI do not recall the quotation, but very likely. 
Where are Aunt Hebe and the rest ?” 

Voices of the party were heard in the distance ; 
presently they came up with the leader. 

“Good gracious, Penelope, the house is desert- 
ed; but we found down stairs it is not so long 
since; for remains of a supper, with two chairs 
still up to the table, may be seen in the house- 
keeper’s room,” 

‘“‘Confound those chairs!” thought Sir Horace. 

“This is very serious,” murmured Aunt Penel- 
ope, gravely, and with suspicious meaning. 

“‘ Collect yourself, my dear aunt, I will explain. 
Marion with her daughters started for Italy, three 
of our people gone with them, I gave the others a 
holiday as the most convenient time. Quite by 
surprise I had a visitor this evening—I did not 
trouble to remove the fare to the dining-room, be- 
ing rather an amateur in the part of Drogan; it 
was pardoned, and we contented ourselves as you 
have observed.” 

“I wish we had come a little earlier, to have 
seen this interesting friend; but I can not quite 
make my mind easy about this fire in the studio.” 

“We have been in my little sanctum—” 

‘‘And in the library too, I imagine, from the 
litter. Extravagant, Horace, two fires going at 
once for one person.” 

“Two persons, aunt,” corrected her nephew, 
waxing irritable under the cross-questioning. 

‘Yes, two persons, and this other we ought to 
know something more about; don’t you think so, 
girls? Remember, it isin dear Marion’s absence.” 

They withdrew upon one side and conferred in 
a low tone. It may be explained here that the 
papa of these interesting girls, a classical scholar 
of marked prejudices, had wedded a lady classical 
as himself—a veritable Minerva, and it was the 
fancy of this cultured pair to designate the issue 
of the union classically; hence the creation of 
this band of goddesses. They were now left with 
one common fortune, and that a comfortable one, 
among them ; they were all single ladies, but hus- 
banded this fortune by periodically visiting rela- 
tions and connections, dividing the entire year 
upon this colonization and peregrination, moving 
about in a body, to the intense delight of the peo- 
ple favored, and the awe-struck wonderment of 
the several railway companies. 

It was a bonded vestal sisterhood : re «it in- 
terests making the union compact. Penelope, the 
eldest, being tacitly acknowledged lgader, upon her 
Amazonian shoulders devolved the execution if 
not the conception of their travels into far coun- 
tries. It was her perfection of genius which first _ 


60 A MODERN MINISTER. 


instituted their lengthened visits, by which so 
large a disbursement was annually saved. The 
honor of their visit fell without much favoritism 
upon the round. If told they were not wanted, 
or that it was not convenient, they stopped the 
longer, in case they did not get in next time; 
their consolidated body gave them strength, and, 
once located, there was no dislodging them ;. they 
were not to be excluded, nor curtailed, nor de- 
molished. Men of their connection called them 
the Eleventh Plague, and very much patronized 
the Club during the visitation. Noone bore them 
in more cordial dislike than did Lady Vivian, 
whose refined sense of delicacy was terribly 
shocked by the troop. Upon one occasion, re- 
turning from her drive in the Park, she found her 
house not only taken possession of in her absence, 
but they were brooding in council over the whole 
contents of her wardrobe spread out before the 
tribe. 

One quality these ladies possessed which an- 
noyed their friends beyond all their other virtues 
put together. This was the scenting out of scan- 
dals, at the delicate discovery of which they were 
without rivals in this or any other land. They 
entertained a theory, not that there was a skele- 
ton in every cupboard, but that there was some- 
thing wrong going on in every house, which it was 
their duty to expose. They were a self-appointed 
court sitting upon the conduct in that traditional 
castle the Englishman—until their advent—fond- 
ly believed his house to be. 


| eT 


CHAPTER XI. 
A TESTIMONIAL IS PROPOSED. 


Frogeyponp Hau stood at end of a chase full 
five minutes’ walk from the road. It derived its 
descriptive title from the legions of frogs that all 
night long croaked with a vigor mildly resembling 
the din of a battle. The mistress of Froggypond 
was proud of her frogs, and would on no account 
have had one insnared. Any visitor objecting to 
her frogs was requested curtly to withdraw from 
Froggypond. It is not clear whether the old lady 
imagined the spirits of her long line of ancestors 
had passed into these frogs, but it is tolerably 
certain she considered the frog an ancient and 
aristocratic emblem. A frog couchant was the 
crest, a frog in stone squatted upon: the family 
vault,*frog salt-cellars in massive silver weighted 
the board. The old lady had but one surviving 
relative—her grandson Elmore, the heir to Frog- 
gypond. She had made that gentleman one gift 
in his life, a scarf pin; it bore upon its apex a huge 
gold frog. The beast was the sign-manual of the 
house. Mrs. Elsynge envied nobody their rooks 
or their deer so long as her frogs were alive and 
croaking. 

The pond was at the rear; it was an awful 
place. At least three of their literary friends 
had taken it for the scene of horrifying events. 
Around it grew weeping trees—all the trees that 
ever wept, it seemed: willow, poplar, ash, elm, 
birch, holly, lime, beech, cherry, and laburnum— 
a dense plantation encircling its sluggish, sullen 
depth. It was grown over with noisome weed, it 
was guarded by weird reeds, it was the haunt of 
innumerable horrors, it was the great preserve of 
the frogs of Froggypond, 


Did one of the orchestral band find its way 
into the house, it was raised tenderly by the 
mistress (because her servants were afraid of 
them), and, leaning upon her stick, she would 
hobble down to her pool (uncommonly like a gen- 
tlewoman witch of olden times), and restore it to 
its fellows with extravagant care. 

Sometimes a dog would set up an agreeable 
howling in the dead of night, naturally to drown 
the monotonous croaking from the pond. The 
old lady would invariably arise upon these occa- 
sions and proceed to the scene of disputation ; 
she would not have permitted Cerberus himseif 
to bark her frogs to silence, neither could that 
canine notable have done so. 

“Quen disent les grenouilles ?” was in 1791 the 
popular court phrase at Versailles; and truly 
might it have been the pass-word at the old Hall. 
The domestics stood in as great awe of the am- 
phibious tribe as did those Lycian shepherds who, 
Ovid tells us, were changed into frogs for mock- 
ing Latona, or, as Milton’s sonnet hath it: 


‘‘ As when those hinds that were transform’d to frogs . 


Rail’d at Latona’s twin-born progeny.” 


But the shepherds, or, as some say, peasants, 
weeding a marsh in Caria, had insulted the tribe, 
and, according to classic precedent, but met with 
their just desert; the servants at Froggypond, on 
the contrary, paid court timorously to their mis- 
tress’s favorites. 

The county, aware of Mrs. Elsynge’s penchant 
for this department in amphibiology, gave her a 
wide berth, and, with the exception of two or three 
old families equally peculiar with their hobbies 
and idiosyncrasies, did not visit. The mistress, 
who was strong-minded and obstinate, did not go 
into mourning on this account; on the contrary, 
she expressed herself gratified, since their car- 
riages would not disturb her frogs. Nevertheless, 
the estate and lands were considerable, and her 
grandson was much looked up to. 

It was studiously kept from this gentleman, 
yet somehow came to his knowledge, that Sea- 
borough and Sleperton were united upon the idea 
of making him a testimonial. 

Why, he could not imagine; and he heartily 
wished they had honored somebody else by the 
choice. True, as church-warden, guardian, mag- 
istrate, and mayor, he had served the town to the 
best of his ability; but then he was also the lar- 
gest land-owner for miles round, hence very able 
to return any mark of esteem the town might 
confer. : 

Through the officious informant who is ever at 
hand to divulge any thing particularly kept a 
secret, Mr. Elsynge was acquainted what pre- 
liminaries had taken place; private and confi- 
dential meetings having been organized for the 
arrangements whereby the scheme of municipal 
gratitude might be carried out with decorum and 
éclat, 

The first meeting had been convened to assem- 
ble at eight o’clock in the evening of a Monday, 
the conference place being the coffee-room at the 
Lindon Arms. Mrs. Tapper was equal to the oc- 
casion. The superb brocade, not had out since 
Tapper’s death, was worn with buxom effect; the 
coffee-room, which had not been swept or garnish- 
ed within memory of man, had undergone a reg- 
ular turning out. If there is an interior more 
faded of aspect and stale of odor than another, it 


Ci. oe a oe 


A MODERN MINISTER. 61 


is a coffee-room, but this of the Arms was made 
to present a most inviting appearance, and there- 
in assembled a goodly number of influential and 
representative ones for the discussion of the mat- 
ter. 

Very elaborate had been the propositions and 
suggestions; and to this gentleman, who hated 
the idea of a testimonial with emphatic contempt, 
very elaborate indeed appeared the nonsense. 

A week afterward he heard that a second meet- 
ing had been convened, at which had been pass- 
ed these important resolutions: First, that the 
public be invited to respond liberally to the uni- 
versal sense of the civil, moral, and intellectual 
worth of Elmore Elsynge, Esquire; a subscription 
fund to be opened at the house of Mr. Alderman 
Gubbins, Mr. Simcox, Curator of the Museum, 
being appointed treasurer. Secondly, that the 
clergy and gentry be personally waited upon by 
one of the committee in furtherance of their 
views. Thirdly, that the testimonial take the 
form of a piece of plate (Mr. Elsynge being des- 
titute of that useful addendum to the fittings of 
a gentleman’s house! His rooms were lumbered 
with it already, and there were the frog-graven 
tankards and goblets, tea-pots and cream ewers 
to come). The third resolution seemed to have 
been carried after some disputation, Smelt, the 
fish-monger, having been of opinion the new me- 
morial of their esteem should take the form of a 
stained glass window in their church, which could 
be fixed opposite his (Smelt’s) pew (where there 
was an ugly blank); but then somebody had the 
good sense to remark that in that case Smelt him- 
self would be the chief gainer, especially since 
Mr. Elsynge attended at another church ; at which 
Mr. Smelt, the fish-monger, left the coffee-room 
in high dudgeon, and had been heard to remark 
to Mrs. Tapper at the bar that the arrangements 
were very unsatisfactory for the general public. 
After which arose one Uriah Sticky, grocer, who 
was a Dissenter, likewise a teetotaler, and who 
proposed, with mild adjectives, something in the 
way of a drinking fountain ora pump. He was 
overruled by the ex-mayor, who was any thing 
but a temperance advocate, in fact, was partial to 
the vintages. This gentleman testified with pride 
to the fact that Elmore Elsynge, Esquire, detested 
humbug, and while always foremost for sobriety, 
was the best customer upon the books of their 
friend Bacchus Bin who was present; .at which 
Mr. Sticky withdrew, much hurt. He was a con- 
scientious reformer, and earnestly wished to see 
Seaborough and Sleperton depart from the error 
of their ways. He was affronted by the use of 
that word “humbug,” and went home to Mrs. 
Sticky, and over an order for lemonade and gin- 
ger-beer then being dispatched, said, with acute 
sorrow, that he feared the testimonial was being 
altogether mismanaged. Upon the retirement of 
their dear friend Sticky it was further discussed. 
Bacchus Bin, the wine-merchant, said he was 
not going to subscribe to any thing in the drink- 
ing-fountain way; the English as a race were 
deteriorating, and he attributed it to the increase 
in water-drinking, which he thought impoverished 
the blood. The respected gentleman (who ranks 
next in importance in the neighborhood to Cask 
and Cooper, the well-known brewers) was listen- 
ed to with deep attention and many an apprecia- 
tive glance upward at a framed announcement 
in silver letters that Cask anD Cooper’s ENTIRE 


and Fine Op Aes might there be obtained. “TI 
have to propose, gentlemen, that this testimonial 
to our highly respected landlord, who, we trust, 
may some day represent this important and en- 
lightened borough in Parliament; that this testi- 
monial which we are about unanimously to present 
to our much-esteemed landlord, who we hope yet 
to see represent our town and borough; that this 
testimonial which it is the general wish of the 
residents of this enlightened borough—” Here 
some bold individual cried, ‘‘ Hear! hear !” which 
put Mr. Bin out, and he sat down amid much es- 
teem and respect, without, however, having ad- 
vanced the testimonial very much farther. Mr. 
Vault, tle stone-mason, here trespassed, as he 
said, upon the time of the meeting; but with def- 
erence to the better opinion of those with more 
experienced judgment, he ventured courteously 
to submit a proposition for something in the way 
of an OBELISK. 

This proposal was not received favorably, and 
the gentleman, with much solemnity, descended 
to his seat again. Another unfortunate being 
begged to suggest the foundation of almshouses 
as a memorial to the goodness of their friend, 
whose virtues they had assembled to celebrate. 
In spite of speaking very nicely, and a most po- 
lite bow at commencement and close of his 
remarks, the gentleman was, extinguished. It 
was known he had a group of aged relatives in 
the background, and the committee did not see 
it. After that, Mr. Buckram, the draper, rose 
with very business-like demeanor, and he would 
not detain the meeting by any roundabout state- 
ment of his views upon this important, nay, he 
might say, momentous, occasion. He knew that 
the time of the committee was taken up by much 
that was irrelevant, and would not introduce for- 
eign matter in his brief remarks at that time. He 
had felt surprised at the manner in which the sub- 
ject had been treated ; he might say, indeed, it had 
been a discussion upon trivialities, and he begged 
to amend the motion of submitting, in the most 
concise manner possible, the proposition to be 
made. People here appearing bewildered, and not 
quite certain himself where he was, the generally 
esteemed speaker made a butt at his proposal, 
and suggested a yard of very good silk or sutin 
illuminated by hand, etc. This was overruled in 
consequence of its not being deemed suitable when 
put to the vote, the truth of the negative senti- 
ment being that but one person in all Seaborough 
or Sleperton was skilled at illuminating, that per- 
son being the daughter of Benjamin Buckram, 
Draper and Hosier. After that, Mr. Easel, the 
artist, a great authority in matters of taste, sub- 
mitted that an oil-painting, full length, in robes 
of office—which, said the authority in matters of 
taste, would not only be a work of art, but would 
be historically valuable and an heir-loom—should 
be presented, he thought, to that exemplary lady, 
Mrs. Elsynge, of Froggypond. At this point Mr. 
Panel, the carriage-builder, had lifted his hand 
apologetically, and wished to passa remark. Mr. 
Panel was a man of substance, and the remark 
was listened to kindly. ny 

“Mr, Chairman and Fellow-townsmen,” com- ~ 
menced the courtly Panel, “we assemble to-day 
upon an occasion that is, to my mind, of more 
than ordinary interest. For a long period we 
have been silent but not unmoved witnesses of 
the virtues of a descendant of one of the oldest 


62 


and most honored families in this neighborhood. 
The time has come to make this appreciation pub- 
lic: in the face of the world we would bear evi- 
dence to the official and private service rendered 
to this town and borough by the illustrious gen- 
tleman we would signalize; and I submit, Mr. 
Chairman and gentlemen, that the testimonial take 
the form of a new and handsome carriage.” The 
lumbering old affair then in use by the family had 
been made by Panel’s father, and the proposal 
was attentively considered. It was eventually 
thrown out, upon the representation being made 
that Mr. Elsynge seldom or never used the fami- 
ly coach, he being, as was well known, an enthu- 
siastic lover of equine exercise, and p@ssessing, 
moreover, faultless animals in the stables. He 
was a great hunter, and they were proud of it— 
it was a hunting country. Mr. Silverside arose; 
Mr. Silverside represented the wealth of the com- 
munity of shop-keepers. Mr. Silverside said he 
had reserved his remarks until the last, reserved 
them with impatience, for he had listened to a 
great deal of nonsense, and most of the senti- 
ments had been all fudge. Those who had dis- 
tinguished themselves became surly, but with knit 
brows and crisp-looking silver curls sloping up- 
ward from an intellectual brow, the much-respect- 
ed fellow-townsman pursued the tenor of his way. 
It was this way: he had lived all his life in their 
beautiful town, had seen two generations, had as- 
sisted in the presentation of testimonials before, 
and disliked circumlocution. All things consid- 
ered, he thought, and he thought the committee 
would think as he thought, in thinking which he 
thought he was thinking with the committee. 
Here the worthy Silverside, whom nature had not 
engraved as an orator, shut his eyes the better to 
see his argument, and the gentlemen who had al- 
ready spoken and been called to account applaud- 
ed with their toes under the table, the jeweller 
going on to say he thought, and he thought the 
committee would think as he thought in thinking, 
A Piece or PLatE, commemorative of the tro- 
phies of the chase, would be as acceptable as any 
thing they could confer; and there being no dis- 
Sentient voice, this was unanimously carried, and 
the worthy proposer intrusted with the commis- 
sion of its execution, in as tasteful a design and 
as rich a quality as the subscribed amount would 
admit of. : 

Mr. Elsynge’s informant entered very fully into 
this account, and the possessor of the many vir- 
tues would gladly have handed over a hundred 
- pounds to the local charities to escape from the 

coming honor. It was eminently repulsive being 
under an obligation to nobody knows whom for 
a something he did not deserve, and would rath- 
er have been without, and yet was supposed to 
know nothing about. To feel every eye was con- 
templating his horsemanship while calculation 
was going on with hand in pocket concerning the 
cost of self and steed in silver! To feel unable 
to speak his mind to the traders or the servants, 
-lest he should hurt the susceptibility of one or 
other contributing to that precious testimonial ! 
It was very unpleasant, and Mr. Elsynge did 
not like it at all, and rode over to commune with 
the mistress of Froggypond Hall. 


ahha Bis 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


CHAPTER XIL 
‘““THE TRIUMPH OF SEASONS.” 


December: Lady Darrell’s residence in Brigh- 
ton: the apartment it was her pleasure to occupy 
when alone: evening. 

A chamber characteristic as usual, presenting 
an unconventional arrangement of color, and 
grouping for effect. : 

The first impression left upon the mind was 
similar to that caused by some dense forest, some 
nook o’erarched and embowered by solid masses 
of dusky leaf, save that here no relief of gorgeous 
browns, of tawny fern, of auburn boughs, was ad- 
mitted: the wonders here of hue and tone came 
of the cunning blending of this forest color in its 
gradation of changing shades. 

The ceiling was picked out in a tracery of deli- 
cate leaves, between which, at’ intervals, the blue 
or white afforded contrast as in the woods. The 
walls were trellised with tropical creepers of rich 
and lustrous leaf, but no blossom. The floor was 
laid, apparently, with thick layers of moss.’ So 
much for the frame-work. The singularity of the 
interior depended upon the appointments, of a 
magnificent character and very original. Froma 
ring of gold central of the ceiling there fell thick 
curtains of velvet of an olive hue, the ends of 
these were confined by gold pegs at either corner 
of the room, and formed a canopied tent of Arab 
resemblance, lined within with silk. From the 
centre of this elegant tent descended by a chain 
of gold a ruby-colored lamp; upon the floor over 
luxurious cushions were stretched dazzling white 
rugs, and hereon my lady reclined at her ease, 
reading. A slender tapering gilt pedestal bore a 
rustic basket of vivid ferns; also near to her, 
beneath the canopy, was an elegant jardiniére 
graceful with drooping palms. The spacious 
apartment being square, there would naturally 
from arrangement of the curtains be four semi- 
oval spaces upon the mossy carpet. These had 
been fitted with tropical plants in a style of as 
admirable disorder as might have been presented 
in their original fastnesses ; a skilled artist of the 
Gardens of Acclimatization, in the Bois de Bou- 
logne, had been intrusted with the delicate com- 
mission of pleasing her ladyship in the tropical 
decorating of these glens, He did not please her— 
no one ever did—but she made fain to be content 
because anxious to take possession ; nevertheless, 
that artist had produced four conceptions of chaste 
and beautiful design, representing the seasons in 
African valleys with their marvellous gradation 
of growth and color. Midst of the luxuriance of 
verdure upon each side was a statue allegorical 
of the season: suspended above by chains of gold 
were ruby lamps, one over each retreat; birds 
flitted through interlaced leaves, fountains curved 
their spiral spray, the odorous breath of exquisite 
perfume filled all the chamber; and before each 
of the retreats was spread a magnificent tiger- 
skin. Lady Helen would have been unable to ex- 
ist without her jungle trophies. 

No furniture—four-legged monstrosities as she 
considered such ; no books, save one she was read- 
ing with fascinated attention ; no pictures, save 
those of nature herself; no intrusion by domestics 
or others. The seclusion here was inviolate; here 
alone she retired to be free and solitary, as though 
in reality amidst the forest ways beneath the 
sumptuous awning of some barbaric chief. 


eee eT a 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


‘Lord Darrell, her ladyship’s father, once made 
a mistake with the doors in this new house, and 
glided upon this strange world, but with a scared 
- look he glided out again, and had never ventured 
there since. And no other step had profaned its 
solitude. It was absolutely the bijou dominion 
of its haughty sovereign. 

A warm and luxurious temperature was pro- 
moted by pipes concealed behind the rock-work 
and plants ; thus, although December, it was the 
climate here of some sunny land. Lady Helen 
was robed simply, yet in character with the re- 
tirement of thisspot. An evening dressing-gown 

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of white cashmere lined with ruby-colored . silk, 
her long hair unconfined straying over this and 
the snowy rugs upon which she reclined. Her 
hand trifled with a small volume bound in a costly 
fashion, the covers chastely embellished with gold 
upon a blue ground of exquisite shading. Not 
at the outside of this volume did her ladyship 
gaze; it was not this caused the proudly curved 
lips to smile. The volume was the Minister’s 
latest work, and it happened to hit her ladyship’s 
taste. 

The time given to its perusal was the pleasant- 


\\ 
Ay 


68 


est she had passed for many a day. The book 
fell from Lady Helen’s hand, and lay with its 
sumptuous binding upon the snowy rug. 

‘He closes with coldness and sarcasm,” she 
murmured, sadly, “as though the woman with 
her children spared to her can afford to think of 
old attachment or present emotion. This* man 
does not know human nature, or the womanly 
side of it.” 

Resting her head upon her hand, for a wonder 
this haughty empress seemed strangely human 
for a while; she was musing upon this writer of 
whom the world was talking. 


“T can not understand it,” said her ladyship, 
slowly. ‘The man and his eloquence in the pul- 
pit move me beyond control; but I am unable to 
reconcile these side gleams of bitterness, half re- 
bellious, almost repining, and evidencing either 
keen regret or a horrible longing. There is some 
mystery; and, contrary to my inclinations, I am 
interested. I must admit to myself that I like 
the man. It is excessively disagreeable going 
with the rabble who follow him, but I like the 
man. I wish I knew his history. My wishes 
have hitherto been law. Why does he not do as 


64 A MODERN MINISTER. 


others do, and seek my friendship? The friend- 
ship I have never yielded to another I would give 
to him; and surely I am worthy of his confidence! 
That which he may never have told to another he 
perhaps would tell tome. Ido not know why, but 
the suspicion has flitted across my mind that he 
has been married—is separated from his wife, 
possibly from his children. Oh, if this be the 
case, how yearningly could I listen, and confess! 
What joy and relief to disclose all, and at last 
meet with a little sympathy! I, who have never 
known it, never experienced woman’s great source 
of solace—the power to confide to some compas- 
sionate friend the full sorrow of an overburdened 
heart! Iam told he does not visit the wealthy, 
but devotes his entire time to the poor, the trou- 
bled, the sin-stricken, and crime-stained; then 
why does he not call here? There would be 
nothing ceremonious about such a visit—we are 
not strangers—and by language of the eye are 
well known to one another; knit by some great, 
and, if I err not, by one similar, sorrow.” 

Her favorite and privileged maid entered. 

“Mr. Garland, my lady, presents his compli- 
ments, and if you are at leisure—” 

“Show Mr. Garland here at once.” 

“My lady ?—” This was so startling an inno- 
vation, for a visitor to be conducted to this apart- 
ment, where the faithful servitors could neither 
peep nor listen, that my lady’s lady resented it 
with as well-bred an air of remonstrance as she 
deemed politic. With languid hauteur the lady 
bestowed one inquiring glance upon the maid; it 
was sufficient. 

Mr. Garland had been conducted by the foot- 
man to the state drawing-room. Upon a fawn- 
colored leather sofa was curled a reddish, fawn- 
colored individual, who just raised his head with 
the fox-like scrutiny habitual, and curled up 
again, motionless, silent, part and parcel of the 
tawny couch. This was not according to the Min- 
ister’s large-hearted ideas at all; he disapproved 
of the wholesalé ignoring of the poor old lord, 
and, walking up, offered ‘him his hand with gen- 
uine feeling “and that cordially winning air so in- 
gratiating with every one. Lord Darrell took the 
hand gingerly, and, having taken it, not knowing 
what to do with the unusual offering, dropped it, 
and curled closer, with a half-nervous look out of 
the corners of his eyes through fringes of red 
lashes. His lordship entertained distaste and 
want of appreciation for public men. Ministers 
he did not understand, platform orators he abom- 
inated (he had once been cajoled into the chair 
at the back of an awful orator before a crowded 
and noisy meeting, and Lord Darrell had never 
forgotten the peculiar sensations attending that 
embarrassing evening). Writers, too, he disliked 
extremely: thus when Mr. Garland uttered his 
kindly greeting the nobleman merely nodded, 
turned round, and curled up tighter on the other 
side. Mr. Garland walked away to another part 
of the room, and stood before a painting repre- 
senting an old and stately building surrounded 
by beautiful scenery. 

‘A noble building this, my lord. Some his- 
toric site ?” 

“Our place at the Lakes. Beautifully retired. 
I was born for quietude.” He had glided up, and, 
standing by the wall, blended in with the brown 
scrolling of the paper. 

“JT wish you would call upon me,” said the 


Minister, earnestly; “I should like to hear all 
about-this house.”’ 

“Would you, really ?” 

A smile changed the whole of his features. He 
looked gratefully at this man taking the trouble 
to be polite to him. 

“Believe me, I should be most pleased. Come 
whenever disposed to enjoy a quiet talk, and 
without any ceremony.” 

With a grateful expression the old lord glided 


back to his lair, and became inanimate, just as. 


the domestic whose province it was to announce 
the Darrell guests opened the door. 
made sport of the autumnal peer. He knew it, 
shrank under it, but passed it over sufferingly, 
passive and as though serenely unconscious of 
any and every thing. 

“‘ Her ladyship will be pleased to see you, Sir, 
if you will follow me.” And the visitor was trans- 
ferred to her ladyship’s maid, who conducted him 
to her ladyship’s presence. ” 


Mr. Garland was considerably astonished when 
he entered the tropical fastness. 


There was lux- 
uriance of flora, a romantic circlet of splendid 
growth arranged as he had never seen in a build- 
ing, and the silken canopied tent, which he skirted 
while he heard the clear musical voice of Lady Hel- 
en saying: 

“Come round, Mr. Garland. You will think this 
a barbaric place to receive you in, but I retreat to 
my little tropical garden to escape from people, and 
I have but just finished reading your book, which, 
it seems to me, should be enjoyed i in some such 
privacy. It is kind to call upon-me. I know 
how you are engaged, and appreciate your visit 
accordingly.” 

This was a particularly gracious speech for her 
ladyship, and while the Minister lightly touched 
her hand, extended without rising, he experienced 
pleasure at meeting with a more genuine recep- 
tion than he had anticipated. She waved her 
hand toward a folding-chair with three gilt sup- 
ports, and he seated himself. He caught sight 
of his Triumph of Seasons, and of course noticed 
that it was bound in a style specially luxurious 
and artistic. 

“You have been reading my little book ?” 

“Yes. And it pleases me in parts. But you 
are rather bitter between the lines, and you do 
not know our sex.” 


“Possibly it is one of the departments of knowl- 


edge best unknown. But are you sure ?” 

“Quite, if you suppose a woman with her chil- 
dren spared to her will not think of them in every 
instance first.” 

He inclined his head with gentle assent. 

“‘T have now called to ask sympathy for one of 
your sex who is in trouble, and passing through 
great anxiety.” 

“But what could have made you come to me, 

of all Brighton, when there are so many sympa- 
thetic souls about ?” 
’ “ Because,” he replied, very softly, “I do not 
know any lady whose sympathy lies more deep 
than yours; who has suffered more within a life- 
time; whose intense compassion would be as sure- 
ly excited.” 

“Forgive me,” she said, giving him her hand 
again, as she had not given her hand to any one 
for many a day, ‘“‘ for my doubt of your knowledge.” 

He proceeded gravely, and as though feeling 
ivery much the burden of his mission. 


The servants. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“T do not know any one to whom I would go 
as I have come to you, bearing the heart’s sorrow 
of another woman; to ask you to go to her and 
offer the comfort more acceptable when tendered 
sincerely by one of her own sex.” 

“Who is it ?” she inquired, faintly. ‘And what 
is the source of her trouble 2” 

“Lady Ellerby, a very young wife—youw know 
them—her husband has been away from Brigh- 
ton for more than a seemly period. The gossips 
have been teasing her about it, and she is sadly 
distressed, and timorous of confiding her sorrow 
to any, which makes it harder to bear.” 

“And she admitted this to you ?” 

“No; I taxed her with it. JI discerned the 
trouble, and wish to help her. I know his lord- 
ship, and do not fear; but it is not so easy to im- 
press her with my conviction of his truth and faith, 
now that the poison is working its course. A 
woman sooner takes the word of a woman as se- 
curity for a man’s honor than that of one of his 
own sex. Will you go to her, explain that Lord 
Ellerby’s artist fancies may be idyllic, and express 
yourself confident of his allegiance ?” 

“‘No, Mr. Garland, because I am not confident. 
I could speak thus assuredly of but one man— 
but one.” 

The tone was very pathetic, and her eyes filled 
with tears. 

The Minister was moved; he bowed his head. 

“You allude to—” 

“To the dead. But now,” with an-effort, re- 
covering herself, “ how can I help this poor child ? 
What do you suggest ?” 

“Man can not suggest ; God will prompt. Go 
to her pityingly; there will be more consolation 
in mute sympathy and cheering words than in a 
studied effort to console.” 

““T will do as you ask me.” She paused, tri- 
fling painfully with the fur by her side. ‘Lady 
Ellerby is not the only woman who needs sympa- 
thy, and can not confide her sorrow to an- 
other.” 


‘My whole life’s experience teaches me differ- | 


ently; but you, of course, are alluding to—to 
Lady Lindon ?” 

“ Ay, to that unhappy lady, widowed and child- 
less. Can there be a greater demand for sympa- 
thy than hers ?” 

“Oh yes, very readily. Lady Lindon’s whole 
life is to me an inconceivable riddle, vexing and 
unsatisfactory ; a marked continuance of anguish, 
a hollow dedication of self and soul to the world, 
an endless battle with opinion, a tourney of un- 
approached daring with society, a miserable iso- 
lation betwixt gayety and selfishness, a comfort- 
less and uncomforted passage through a world 
bristling with weapons, a wealthy solitude, an in- 
finite dreariness, a repining forever and forever, 
while haunted by what might nave been, and con- 
fronted by what is. Lady Lindon is worthy of a 
more noble destiny than this ; and while support- 
ing such unjust and agonizing theories, Lady Lin- 
don has not the prior claim to heart-felt sympa- 
thy. But Iam well assured the method you adopt 
and the forms you accept of disguising remorse 
and veiling contrition, are but of valueless regard 
in your more than womanly keenness of judg- 
ment.” ; 

“Would you have me sit and brood, nun-like, 
in some close cell, on barren joys, and languish 
under yearning never to be realized ?” 

VoL. 11.—E 


65 


“‘T detest sickness in myself or any one else, 
in the poor especially ; if my relief is to be work- 
ed out in such channels, I would rather keep my 
own sorrows and woes to myself, and leave others 
to do the same.” 

He took no notice of her plain candor, and 
would not, until his scroll of good works was ful- 
ly unrolled. 

“‘Then I would have you seek humbly and with 
most utter penitence for some higher hope than 
spans this little world of ours; aspire to the peace 
more abiding than earth affords.” 

“The first step to that peace and the glimpse 
of that higher hope must be when the treasures 
of which a heart has been despoiled live in that 
heart again, live for that heart alone. Can you 
restore the dead to life, Westley Garland, or the 
lost to the guilty and suffering? When you can 
do this, then talk to me as though I were one of 
the ordinary human women to whom you would 
carry hope.” 

“There is One who can do all things,” he re- 
plied, with a sad and gentle smile; “ restore the 
dead to the loving, the lost to the guilty. But 
before Mercy works the miracle Pardon must as- 
sign the motive; the sacrifice of many tears and 
the offering of a heart’s true penitence will effect 
all you desire, and the rest you may safely leave 
in other hands.” 

Long after the Minister’s departure Lady Lin- 
don thought upon his words. 


—— en 


CHAPTER XIII. 
THE TRIBUNAL OF GODDESSES. 


Tue conference was of short duration. Miss 
Penelope turned curtly to her nephew. 


““We are decided. We shall stop, and must 


rough it. Don’t you trouble, Horace; we'll do. 
Now, girls, to work. Where’s the plate-basket, 
nephew ?” 


“T’m sure I can’t say, aunt.” 

“Good lawk!” cried Aunt Phyllis, spitefully. 
‘““Here’s a man don’t know where his own plate- 
basket is! It’s a good thing we came as we did 
to tell him. I always said this was the most ex- 
travagant household in England.” 

“ve a suspicion all is not right,” whispered 
Aunt Penelope to Aunt Minerva, “and if I live, 
Pll find out what it is. We owe it to Society, 
dears. Our painful duty lies before us. I am 
seldom deceived in my presentiments, the true 
danger signals of life. Mark dear Horace’s flush- 
ed cheek and absent manner, and his edging near 
that door. I always had my suspicions about 
Horace, and one day you will see I am right. 
Our poor sainted Marion” (Lady Vivian) “‘ would 
not absent herself without a cause.” 

“ Pulmonary, dear Penelope, the doctors say.” 

“ Fudge!” 

“Shall we go down stairs to the library, my 


66 


dear aunts? You'll excuse the drawing-room— 
no fire—furniture covered up.” 

“Don’t you trouble, Horace. 
the covers off.” 

“ Hoity-toity, what’s this?” Aunt Diana had 
picked up a small pocket-handkerchief which the 
little fugitive had unfortunately dropped upon the 
stairs. “Well, this is pretty, I must confess! 
Marked—yes, it is, with # 7. in the corner. 
This does not belong to any of us, you know.” 

‘“‘Give me the thing.” Thus the presiding god- 
dess, in a sepulchral voice; and the sister har- 
pies made obeisance. 

“Tell you what it is,” said Aunt Penelope, in 
solemn under-tones, “a female is concealed in the 
house.” A shuddering thrill pervaded the closely 
clustered maidens, and the more sensitive to the 
unkind breath of calumny held each other by the 
hand, looking unutterably pensive. Not so the 
hardened leader, an_old officer, who never gave 
way to sentiment or any thing soft. Looking the 
group hard in the face, she repeated, “a female!” 
and from the horrified looks one would have sup- 
posed they had never seen a female before. ‘“‘ And 
it is our bounden duty to discover her. But come, 
girls, there are seven beds to be aired; we shall 
not. be a-bed by morning. Now, Horace, where’s 
the key of the clothes-press ?” 

‘“‘T rather think Marion took it with her.” 

“Then I rather think we shall have to foree 
the lock. Don’t you trouble, Horace, but trot 
down to your books,” 

“‘T wish I knew where to lay my hand on a fel- 
low who understands dynamite, te dispatch this 
lot to the other end of. London.” With which 
undutiful, disrespectful, and irreverent vent to 
his inner sensations, Sir Horace. then relieved 
himself outwardly. “There seems to be some 
dissatisfaction, my dear aunts, at your finding me 
so very much monarch of all survey. You’ll al 
low me to say, with all my love for you, that I 
have not the least objection to. continue my inde- 
pendent sovereignty. Your fly-men have not left 


We’ll soon have 


the square, and I shall be happy to re-engage them 


for you.” 

“Just what I expected,” remarked Aunt Pe- 
nelope to aunts Hermione and Vesta. “ He wants 
to get rid of us; but he sha’n’t! No, Horace, 
we’ve come for a month, and a month we stop, if 
only in the interests of dear Marion, and though 
all the guards of St. James’s should attempt to 
eject us. So don’t you trouble, Horace, we’ll man- 
age, and get things into werking order; but no 
mysteries—we’re determined.” 

“Well said,” from Aunt Vesta, the others pip- 
ing in unison. 

Knowing of old experience that remonstranee 
would be futile, Sir Horace left the goddesses to 
luxuriate at will, and returned to his task in the 
library. Occasionally the marehing of the force 
from quarter to quarter caused a rumbling to be 
heard, and sometimes, when they were disagree- 
ing and all talking at once, the din of the fray 
floated down to him; but beyond this he was not 
much annoyed for the time being. At an early 
hour in the morning they retired; the house was 
perfectly still, and before the embers of his fire 
Sir Horace reviewed the situation. He knew suf- 
ficient of the battalion to rest assured that they 
would leave no stone unturned likely to forward 
their investigation. 

He longed to revisit his little charge, to make 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


‘certain all was well with her. 


It would be the 
only time, he feared, when he could go secure 
from interruption. 

Having stocked a basket with provisions and 
all the good things he could find, Sir Horace ex- 
tinguished the light, and stole softly up stairs. 
It was early dawn; a shaft of light fell on the 
mailed figures guarding the. stairs like the ap- 
pointed sentinels of propriety. Past these it was 
very dark, and he had to feel quietly for the door 
knob. Thus doing, his hand encountered some- 
thing soft and warm; it was a human neck, and 
it reared. He knew it was Aunt Penelope, who 
had been listening at the key-hole. The basket 
grazing her arm, the idea of a burglar and plate- 
basket evidently took possession of the fair detect- 
ive, for she fled like the wind, to the great delight 
of Sir Horace, that persevering gentleman admit- 
ting himself without loss of time, and carefully 
closing the door. 

In the second chamber he found the fire burn- 
ing low, casting flickering shadows on the pretty 
sleeper, who formed a subject he designed for an 
early sketch. It was so near the dawn, he made 
up the fire, settled himself in an easy-chair, and 
watched her; it was far too fair a picture to dis- 
turb. The delicate contour, healthful flush, and 
youthful happiness of that dream-time made up 
a study that delighted him, and before he was 
aware of his weariness he too fell asleep, and 
slept on till daylight, to be awakened by two lips 
on his that left the swiftest and lightest of kisses. 
It was the more pleasant, because it released him 
from the thralldom of unpleasant dreaming, where- 
in, arraigned before the thirteen as counsel and 
judges in a court with closed doors, he had been 
subjected to cross-examination of a ‘peculiarly of- 
fensive kind. 

“So, miss,” he said, smilingly, “you are awake, 
then ?” 

“T’ve had a lovely sleep,” she answered, with 
charming confidence ; 
poor papa.” 

“ And I’ve been dreaming too,” replied he, with 
awry face. ‘A pretty pickle you’ve got me into! 
And how to get out of it is more than I can dis- 
cern. You open your eyes, little one. Frankly, 
the entire family according to Burke has descend- 
ed. You don’t understand ? Come here and I will 
explain.” ‘He lifted her on to his knee and ex- 
plained. She was delightfully sensible, but caught 
at the humor rather than the seriousness of the 
position. 


“T can creep down stairs and away if you like.” 


“Not for any thing. They are all over the 
place. 
the bottom of the stairs, and two marching ue 
and down the court- yard.” 

. This was exaggeration, but it served to impress 
her, and she looked with grave concern into the 
kind face, while saying: 

“Iam so sorry! I ought not to have staid.” 

“T suppose not; but we both acted for the best. 
Don’t go near that window, and tread lightly when 
moving about, for they’ve wonderful ears. I must 
leave you now, for I want to get down to the li- 
brary before any of them are about.” 

She gave him her hand prettily, and with a 
good-by kiss he took leave. All was silent, and 
he was cautiously locking the outward door and 
congratulating himself, when he heard Aunt Pe- 
nelope say at the foot of the stairs: 


“and been dreaming of | 


One on guard at every door, a posse at. 


# 


ol 


% 
a 


% 
é 


A MODERN MINISTER. 67 


“ Just wait and hear what he has to say in ex- 
planation.” ~ 

At the foot of the stairs the gorgons were drawn 
up in line. 

“‘Horace,” cried Aunt Penelope, transfixing him 
with her accusing eye, “ your bed was not slept in 
last night.” 

“Good patience; no more it was!’’ he exclaim- 
ed, for the first time alive to the ugly fact. “I 
—er, the bed was—er—it was so late, I mean 
early, I really didn’t think it worth while.” 

“Slept in your chamber of mystery, perhaps.” 
And the speaker looked volumes, to the intense 
disgust of her sensitive nephew, who, consider- 
ably nettled, replied : 

“No, my dear aunt. Iam like many another 
monarch ; the state couch is only used upon state 
occasions.” 

“This levity is shocking !” 

“ Disgraceful!” murmured Aunt Dido. 

The others spake not, but thought the more. 

“It may not perhaps be known to you that an 
old sportsman is satisfied with the veriest shake- 
down.” 

“Girls !” Aunt Penelope addressed the assem- 
blage. ‘‘ When have we ever shrunk from doing 
our duty? Do we shrink now? If dear Horace 
has down to be shaken, it is our duty to shake it. 
Have we come all this way to be consistent and 
womanly, or have we not? Girls, I wait your 
decision.” 

‘“‘Suppose we discuss it over coffee?” said Sir 
Horace. 

“We had that hours ago; it’s luncheon-time 
now ; there’s nothing in the house, and nobody to 
send to Gunter’s.” 

“Suppose I go and order—” 

“No, thank you, we'll go together, and after- 
ward you will take us to the German Reeds, and 
then we’vea little shopping, and as dear Dido longs 
to see a skating rink, we’ll finish there.” 

Utterly aghast, the unfortunate Sir Horace, 
passing through it all in imagination, began to 
feel dreadfully unwell. He was at a loss to con- 
ceive which would be the most terrible experience 
—the luncheon, the entertainment, the business, 
or the exercise: in the last, by-the-way, he de- 
voutly prayed the party would not attempt to take 

art. é; 
me I hope you will excuse me—I—really—some 
writing must be done—pressed for time.” 

“Nonsense! We don’t come to see you every 


- day; give the time up to us now we’re here; you'd 


never be so ungallant as to leave us to ourselves ! 

Fancy us at the crossings, Horace! We want 

you to take care of us; we might be run over.” 
“‘ Certainly, my dear aunts,” assented Sir Hor- 


“ace, profoundly impressed, but thinking, “‘No such 


luck, ’'m afraid.” 

In process of time the aunts-extraordinary were 
arrayed, and the party set forth. Sir Horace did 
not quite know whether to put himself at the 
head or the tail of the detachment; but the ladies 
settled it, and made sure of their knight-errant 
by keeping him well in the centre. Altogether it 
was a spectacle, and thus London seemed to eon- 
sider, for its worthy citizens stared aghast at Sir 
Horace, fancying he was the head keeper of St. 
Luke’s. Never having tried the sensation of rid- 
ing in hansom cabs, his charges decided upon 
that mode of transit, and an entire rank was 


chartered forthwith. They journeyed in a line to 


the German Reeds’ entertainment, to the wonder- 
ment of passing artisans, who asked one another 
were they delegates from some reform movement, 
or almshouses going to a treat. Still in the cen- 
tre of the procession, Sir Horace felt his position 
acutely ; the illiterate evidently expected he would 
bow, or in some other way acknowledge the open- 
mouthed and awe-struck interest, but the gentle- 
man did nothing of the kind; he was thinking of 
the child alone in that great house, and felt anx- 
ious concerning her. Arrived at their destination, 
the commissionnaire also supposed it a charity out 
for the day ; he was abrupt, and careful that his 
uniform did not fraternize with decayed gentle- 
women. They entered: as usual, Sir Horace tak- 
ing front seats for the assembly. The audience 
was applauding as they entered, and Aunt Penel- 
ope bowed, to the great amusement of some quiet 
folk near the door. When the tickets were ob- 
tained, it was the leader’s custom to push forward 
and leave Sir Horace struggling in the rear. She 
now led her flock after the manner of geese on a 
common, with their nephew at the rear; he did 
not repine, remembering that even the tail of a 
comet is lustrous. The leader could not find 
fourteen vacant seats, but she officiously requested 
a young lady and gentleman to remove; this they 
did, looking very frightened, and the batch of 
Amazons took victorious possession. But then 
it was discovered that Aunt Hermione had left 
her tippet in one of the cabs, and nothing would 
do but the entire party must go out again. 

The entertainment having commenced, people 
felt and looked very annoyed, noticing which, 
Miss Penelope glared upon them so ferociously, 
and was backed by so formidable a contingent, 
people made room with the best grace they could 
summon. Outside it was discovered that the line 
of cabs had disappeared, and, highly incensed, 
the party returned to the hall. As they passed, 
the men all looked down into their hats, a pro- 
found sensation was aroused, and Sir Horace 
wished himself at the bottom of the Red Sea. 
They had not been sitting seven minutes before 
Aunt Dido wished for some refreshment. Sir 
Horace was required to oblige, and he did so, not 
daring to glance to right or left while making his 
way out. 

Here an idea flashed upon him, a bold one, but 
which he proceeded to put into execution. He 
would return home—like the wind—see how his 
charge was faring, and return as _ breathlessly ; 
in a few hurried words he would explain events 
to the child, so that her fear or anxiety would be 
dispelled. 

The cab he hired bore him along by quiet 
streets and saving corners, and in a very few 
minutes after leaving the hall he was with Ella, 
who was not looking any the worse for her im- 
prisonment. The child greeted her friend with 
gladness, and heard the explanation, thanking 
him sweetly for his efforts in her behalf; so 
sweetly he felt more than repaid. He was en- 
abled to give her a few minutes’ liberty for a race 
about the place while restocking the provision 
basket, and replenishing the coals and wood and 
picture-books. ) 

He was just re-entering the cab when two po- 
licemen appeared, and, checking the driver, in- 
quired of his fare if he answered to the name of 
Sir Horace Vivian. Sir Horace, with guilty quak- 
ing, felt something had happened. He assured 


68 A MODERN MINISTER. 


the officers, with much politeness, he fully an- 
swered to the name, begging to be informed of 
the motive of their interest. 

The officer, who chanced to be one of the obtuse 
sort, and failing to perceive the gentleman’s agita- 
tion, blurted out, 

“Quantity of ladies gone into hysterics at the 
circus crossing, calling out for you, Sir.” 

At first Sir Horace thought of regaining his 
dwelling and leaving them at the circus crossing, 
but he well knew it would make the inevitable 
retribution more terrible. 

Whatever had transpired, all was orderly at 
that point when the troubled gentleman arrived 
upon the scene. Inquiring of another policeman, 
he was told that the ladies had been taken to the 
opposite refreshment-rooms, and, hastening thith- 
er, Sir Horace discovered his aggrieved aunts, 
not lying outstretched, awaiting medical restora- 
tives, as he anticipated, but sitting in a line, 
sipping cherry-brandy, for which an attendant 
brought a bill to Sir Horace, total twenty-six 
shillings. And still Miss Penelope looked with 
bitter displeasure upon her nephew. 

“We will not allude here to your conduct, 
Horace, for one who could thus leave us to perish 
must be impervious to any reprimand that af- 
fection or morality might devise. It is evident by 
the success attending the faithful officers in their 
search for you that, prompted by some inscrutable 
and mysterious purpose, you returned home; it 
confirms our previous terrible suspicions, and, 
Horace, we tremble for you. In the name of your 
long-suffering family, we conjure you to account 
for this ominous action !” 

“Certainly, my dear aunts. But why all Siig 
emotion? Allow metoexplain. Aunt Dido want- 
ed something to eat—” 

“There is no necessity for putting it in that 
brutal form, Horace!” cried Aunt Dido, indig- 
nantly. ‘“ But goon!” 

“Aware of the delicacy of my dear aunt’s ap- 
petite” (it resembled that of an ostrich), “I would 
not venture upon procuring the confectionery of 
the neighborhood.” Saying which, he removed 
from his pocket a miscellany of tartlets which 
the ladies had been busy manufacturing all the 
morning, and which had been discovered by the 
uncaged birdie. Much chagrined, the ladies ac- 
cepted the explanation for the time being, but 
resolved the affair should receive some other so- 
lution. 

“If you are now well enough, I propose we go 
home.” 

“Oh, certainly; having spoiled our day’s enjoy- 
ment, you would drag us back without so much 
as looking at the shops! No, Horace, we have 
come to do an hour or two’s shopping, and we’ll 
do it, if never again. We are all wanting new 
dresses, and mantles, and bonnets, and may as 
well have the benefit of your taste as not. Art- 
ists, as a rule, are famed for the excellence of 
their taste, especially those with private studios. 
So don’t you trouble, Horace; we’ll do, once set 
us down at the counter.” 

Sir Horace was not by any means a penurious 
person, but he shivered slightly upon hearing this, 
and felt if he had brought his check-book. 

Coerced into a large drapery establishment, Sir 
Horace stood behind a costume stand hidden from 
the view of an imposing-looking gentleman, who, 
with large assurance remarking to an auxiliary, 


‘A rush, I think,” courteously inquired Miss Pe- 
nelope’s pleasure. When it was discovered to be 
a party, the gentleman fell through trap, or dis- 
appeared in some other mysterious form, and was 
no more seen in that part of the building. The 
thirteen ladies were patiently entertained by thir- 
teen sleek assistants, who rapidly crowded the 
counter with fabric in all colors of the rainbow 
and every quality of the market. His aunts’ 
faces were glowing with pleasure, and Sir Horace 
thought it a capital chance for a quiet stroll. But 
no; Aunt Penelope’s argus eye was all about her, 
and with a shrill cry she arrested his retreat. 

“Come back, Horace. What, you’re off again, 
then ?” 

Being a sensitive man, this was peculiarly of- 
fensive to Sir Horace before the tittering em- 
ployés. He felt that he was taken for the Mor- 
mon President of Salt Lake, and having an aver- 
sion to notoriety, he looked around for the friend- 
ly shadow of another costume stand; but none 
being at hand, he seated himself, and studied the 
green tracery of the carpet, whereon the goddess- 
es fenced him about. 

After a time that counter presented a fair con- 
ception of chaos, when each of the ladies had 
plucked at the inside of every piece, unrolled 
every roll, turned over every pile, and generally 
played the deuce with the merchandise, to the 
consternation of the assistants and marked im- 
patience of their superiors. The utmost resources 
of the warehouses were taxed to win favor of 
these singular customers, but no sooner did any 
of them appear upon the eve of deciding but the 
others had some objection to offer. Thus no prog- 
ress was made, and Sir Horace was waxing fever- 
ish, when Miss Penelope thought she would look 
in the window; she might see something there 
she liked better. With much dignity the leader 
proceeded to the pavement, followed by Aunt 
Hebe and Aunt Minerva. Then came Aunt Her- 
mione, Aunt Vesta, and Aunt Circe, none of whom 
had been quite able to decide. Then aunts The- 
tis and Leda walked slowly out, talking in a low, 
deep tone. Aunt Dido trotted in the rear; she 
had inhaled fumes of cookery from the nether 
regions, and it revived her reminiscences of the 
charms of Regent Street and Oxford Street res- 
taurants. Aunts Phyllis and Diana reared in turn 
and joined the throng, taking Iphigenia with 
them. Left desolate, Miss Evadne caught at Sir 
Horace’s arm, and clinging thereto with frantic 
and affrighted perseverance, she was borne from 
the shop by her devoted nephew. 

“Now, Horace,” said Miss Penelope, when the 
grave assembly was met before the elaborately 
arranged windows, “oblige us by going in and 
telling ’em we think their goods very dear, and 
we can do better, and see more variety in the 
country.” 

Poor Sir Horace was any thing but enraptured 
with this commission. 


Standing above the savory kitchen of the es-. 


tablishment, Aunt Dido emphatically declared she 
must take something, or sink. The chevalier Sir 
Horace fervently wished she might sink, or else 
that her head might tumble off and down to the 
charger of the cook.. A stampede ensued in fa- 
vor of a restaurant, where his cormorant of an 
aunt was soon satisfied. 

Future operations were then considered; and 
it being decided the bonnets would most interest 


se ae 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


them, the party proceeded to a large and impos- 
ing millinery establishment. The greater part of 
two hours was passed here. The natural objection 
of the ladies to any style too fashionable, any style 
not fashionable enough, any colors not in exact 
accord with their individual taste; the fitting on 
by the entire thirteen when any particular design 
was approved; the trying of harmonious blending 
of shades before every mirror in the shop; the 
unpicking and re-adjusting; taking out of flowers, 
and taking off of bows, and adding of fresh ones; 
the altering of plumes and cunning placing of or- 
naments ; the substitution of black for white lace, 
or vice versa, and the removal of narrow for broad, 
and of plain for corded ribbons—all this occupied 
much time and exhausted the ingenuity and pa- 
tience of the combined English and French talent 
of the fashionable establishment; and great was 
the wrath thereof when Miss Penelope solemnly 
asserted their regret, but they really did not see 
any thing that quite suited them. And they walk- 
ed out with some indignation that these artistes 
should have taken up so much of their time, and 
have shown them nothing superior to what they 
saw daily in the country. The principal looked 
highly outraged, was heard to mutter something 
about a tribe of locusts, and proceeded to an in- 
ner room, where she discharged a poor girl, the 
sole support of bedridden parents. 

After such fatigue Aunt Dido wanted some- 
thing to eat. , 

“Now, Horace,” said Aunt Penelope, when 
Aunt Dido had again refreshed herself, ‘“ you 
shall take us to see a skating rink, of which we 
hear such good accounts.” 

And therewith the devoted gentleman began 
to feel apprehensive. At that day far less was 
known of this amusement than at present. There 
was but one rink, and that particularly select. To 
this novel resort the party proceeded. Sir Hor- 
ace became extremely nervous; he had never been 
upon any thing more slippery than orange peel 
and oak boards, and the contemplation of sup- 
porting thirteen aunts upon cherry-brandy and 
roller skates imparted a very grave expression 
to his face. He felt exceedingly uneven before 
commencing; what he would feel afterward he 
could not fathom. 

Sitting in a line, the ladies were about fasten- 
ing on their skates when the watchful eyes of 
Miss Penelope detected a man, some distance off, 
but with face directed their way; and, blushing 
very deeply, she ejaculated, “Girls!” Like star- 
tled fawns, they were alive to danger upon the 
instant, and likewise blushed most deeply. Sir 
Horace was then deputed to go and request the 
person to turn his head away; so he engaged 
the obliging and entirely innocent individual in 
conversation until he imagined his party to be 
equipped. They were awaiting his coming with 
impatience, and severely reproved him for neg- 
lecting them to gossip with strangers. 

“Do you think it safe, dear Horace?” piped 
Aunt Phyllis, tremulously. 

“Tf you are not nervous, my dear aunts. The 
main thing is to strike out boldly and with confi- 
dence, preserving a balance.” 

Those who were performing graceful evolutions 
saw the advent of the new party with dismay, and 
at once gave them all the area possible. 

At last all stood upon the uncertain surface, 
Sir Horace very near to the edge, six of his dear 


69 


aunts clinging to him, seven leaning up against 
him as back to a wall. 

The music began to play, and it fired the ladies’ 
enthusiasm. ‘‘ Push us a little way forward, dear 
Horace, but for goodness’ sake be careful.” That 
gentleman gave the required propulsion, perhaps 
rather more actively than expected, for away in 
thirteen directions darted his aunts, up against 
as many couples. Then Sir Horace sat down to 
enjoy the sport. The confusion wrought by the 
goddesses at the skating rink was unique. Their 
efforts to re-assume the perpendicular only led to 
fresh disaster; they were in every body’s way, and 
at last were requested to retire from the course. 
This they strenuously refused to do, and were so 
defiant that the gentleman present declined to in- 
terfere further, and left them to their fate. Thus 
destitute, the ladies, after some ineffectual at- 
tempts, contrived to amalgamate, bearing down, 
upon the iceberg principle, against all opposing 
forces. They derived an advantage founded upon 
their faith, it being simply impossible for a fall 
to occur while that solidified body remained in- 
tact. But their spasmodic appeal to Sir Horace 
was the strong feature. This he prudently would 
not notice, pretending to busy himself at the straps 
of his skates. Very shortly the rink was almost 
deserted, the advance of that battalion being so 
formidable that the company resented it by a po- 
lite departure. The few who remained endeavored 
to exercise themselves undisturbed. Among these 
was an old gentleman of corpulent habit but prac- 
ticed dexterity, who took manifest pride in the 
expertness with which he contrived his figures. 
This individual had the misfortune to be tripped 
up by the excitable team, which fell upon him in 
a body. It brought matters to a crisis. The band 
ceased playing; two servants of the ground re- 
quested that Sir Horace would withdraw his par- 
ty. He in turn requested the myrmidons would 
deliver the message in person, shrugging his 
shoulders as to warn them to be careful. Ap- 
parently the ladies were quite ready to relinquish 
the field, and, assisted by the servants, they made 
for port. , 

“A pretty trick you’ve played us, Horace! 
Dragging us to this abominable place, and leay- 
ing us to perish on the frozen deep.” 

“Then you have not enjoyed the exercise ?” 

“ Enjoyed, indeed! Girls, we will go home.” 

“T think,” put in Aunt Dido, coyly, “we ought 
to have a little something to eat. I declare I feel 
quite sinking !” 

“You see it has done some good,” said Sir Hor- 
ace to Aunt Penelope, with sardonic cheeriness ; 
‘“‘it has improved dear Aunt Dido’s appetite.” 

But this time Miss Penelope overruled her vo- 
racious sister ; she had set her mind upon going 
home, and home they went. 

After tea Miss Penelope and party made a de- 
scent upon the library, where Sir Horace was 
vainly trying to read. 

“‘ Horace, are’you quite sure dear Marion took 
the keys? We can’t get at the Berlin wool or 
any thing else.” 

“ And a very good thing too.” 

“Horace!” Twenty-six eyelids lifted with 
ominous effect. 

“T mean because you ought to be taking per- 
fect rest.” 

“Well, have you any new pictures to show us ? 
By-the-bye, we should like to see what you're en- 


40 ‘A MODERN MINISTER. 


gaged upon now in the studio. Girls, are we united 
upon this ?” 

“Certainly !” came with emphatic brevity from 
all, and Sir Horace began to feel curiously un- 
pleasant. All buzzing at once, it was impossible 
for him to edge in a word, but when he had that 
good fortune it was to explain— 

“Excuse me, my dear aunts, but I never like 
any of my pieces to be seen until complete ; it 
spoils the effect, and is apt to excite a prejudice.” 

“Now don’t you trouble, Horace, but come 
along and open the door, you Blue-beard, you! 
Our interest is quite piqued.” 

“T am sorry to disappoint you.” 

“But we’re not going to be disappointed.” 

“T really can not comply with your request, 
there are so many things about; get thirteen 
charming ladies in there, it would make a devil 
of amess. I beg your pardon.” 

“Oh, fie! How much he resembles Pygma- 
lion!” cried Aunt Circe. 

“ Happy thought!” said Sir Horace to himself ; 
then aloud, “ Exactly—that’s just it. I’ve a study 
there not quite the thing for your kind inspection ; 
in fact, at this moment, wrdraped. I—” 

A singularly horrified expression was the result 
of this announcement; then Miss Penelope vin- 
dictively observed : 

““T can scarcely describe my sense of shocked 
surprise, Horace. Fortunately, we telegraphed 
to your poor dear wife this morning that all was 
not right in the house, and we asked her instant- 
ly to return.” 

Now it was Sir Horace’s turn to be violently 
and justly indignant. 

“T think you meddle in much more than there 
is any occasion,for. If you did so telegraph, it 
was an unwarrantable liberty.” 

“There! hear him! only hark at the man!” 
cried Miss Penelope. “They do so hate to be 
found out!” confidentially. 

Sir Horace was thoroughly aroused. ‘ Will 
you say plainly what it is you suspect, and are so 
anxious to scent out? To summon my family in 
this unceremonious manner I think in execrable 
taste, and it would have been preferable had you 
remained in the Midlands.” 

“Oh yes, of course; you thought you were go- 
ing to be so nice and quiet all to yourself; but 
we interfered and marred your pretty plans. To 
speak plainly, Horace, since you’ve set us the ex- 
ample, we believe—I think I am right, dear girls, 
in saying we believe—that some woman is con- 
cealed in this house.” 

Sir Horace laughed lightly, thinking how near 
and how far from the truth were the suspicions 
thus candidly expressed. 

“Tam happy to be able to disabuse your mind 
of this grave impression. No woman is conceal- 
ed in the house.” 

“There! Was ever any thing so unblushing- 
ly denied? Girls, my suspicions are not allayed. 
This attitude is counterfeit. Don’t you trouble, 
Horace; we will discover all.” 

Too provoked to reply, Sir Horace quitted the 
room. 

He waited up stairs some little time to see if 
he was followed; but the council being busily 
brooding over their mischief, he proceeded to act 
upon an idea that suddenly occurred to him. 
They should see the studio. 

His young captive flew to meet him, and he 


quickly accounted for his long absence, explain- 
ing all. 

“And I shall soon have my wife and daughters, 
men-servants and maids, to heighten the perplex- 
ity of this precious situation.. I don’t know which 
will give me the most trouble, my inquisitive aunts, 
wondering daughters, or prying domestics. It is 
imperative for our safety that they should over- 
run this place. Now in Miss Penelope’s cham- 
ber, to which I will take you, is a large, old-fash- 
ioned chest, of which they think my daughter 
only possesses the key; one upon my bunch 
will, however, open it. If you can dispose of 
your little self among my wife’s old cashmeres, 
stowed away there (and I remember there is a 
wide strip of wood off the back, so that you will 
not stand in peril of being suffocated), I will lock 
you in there, but, of course, release you as soon 
as possible. We have got into a fix between us, 
and we must help one another to get out of it.” 

‘“‘T don’t mind hiding there at all, only do not 
forget me.” 

Te do, you must give an unearthly squeak 
in the middle of the night, after which I do not 
think we shall be much longer troubled with my 
aunts.” 

“‘T feel unhappy to have caused this trouble.” 

“Suppose I tell you I think you are fully worth 
the trouble, and that you give me pleasure to 
counterbalance it; will. that set your mind at 
rest, little girl, and change that pitifully pretty 
face to smiling confidence ?” 

Her face grew sunny on the instant, and she 
put up her mouth to be kissed, as in days when 
she was the petted darling of a father, tender 
and kind as this gracious gentleman. The action 
thanked him as no words would have done. 

“Now I will put the place to rights, and make 
it a little more like your room than mine,” she 
said, lightly removing the traces of her stay, and 
restoring the retreat to its orthodox artistic dis- 
order. Sir Horace thought his young charge very 
handy, and he was very much struck by the 
thoughtfulness displayed. He bestowed in re- 
ward a shower of bonbons bought for the pur- 
pose, and these she picked up and stored in her 
pocket. They set out upon the venturesome jour- 
ney to Miss Penelope’s chamber. 

Going down stairs afterward, Sir Horace smiled 
to himself at the daring of hiding away the cause 
of the disturbance in Miss Penelope’s own chamber. 

When the gentleman returned to the library 
the greater part of his book-shelves were bare ; 
classified ranges of volumes were jumbled pell- 
mell, and a general scene of confusion prevailed 
—mortifying enough to the literary man wishing 
to lay his hand on any certain volume in an in- 
stant. Four of his aunts stood on his superb 
writing-table, reaching down splendidly bound 
works which Miss Minerva was dusting with the 
hearth broom. 

“Will you not come into the drawing-room, 
aunt ?” (to Miss Penelope). “ You'll excuse me, 
but I shall have great trouble to get my books in 
order again.” 

“Bless the man! Why, the best of writers 
have their studies higgledy-piggledy, carpets 
strewn, chairs loaded, confusion every where. 
Our poor father, a great scholar and bookworm, 
Horace, used to say that the study was not a 
bookseller’s shop, and he liked to see it upside 
down. He said.the surest indication of extensive 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


reading and almost illimitable knowledge was 
never being able to put your hand on any book 
you wanted, or remember any thing you’d read. 
This, added our father, stamps the savant, and 
separates the thinker from the calculator.”’ 

After which intelligent and epigrammatic remi- 
niscence, Miss Penelope left the room, returning 
quickly with triumphant glee. 

“Girls, Pve the latch-key of the Blue-beard 
chamber! Found it in the porte-monnaie in dear 
Horace’s walking coat. Now we shall.see what 
we shall see! But let us prepare ; oh, let us pre- 
pare! For this may be the momentous incident 
of our lives! Now, follow me!” 

“But, my dear aunts,” remonstrated Sir Hor- 
ace, assuming dismay, “you know not what you 
do! Think for one instant; should not the pri- 
vacy of my own personal suite be preserved in- 
violate? Is it kind? What do you think my 
wife will say ?” | 

“Tt is in the interest of our poor sainted Marion 
we undertake this distasteful office. Don’t you 
trouble, Horace; the truth is bound to come out 
now. On, girls; be brave, and prepare for the 
worst !’’ And the force marched on to the scene 
of discovery. 

With the importance of their mission strongly 
marked upon eager countenances, the great ex- 
pedition set out. They had been hunting scan- 
dal all their days, but this promised to be a chase 
worthy of their skill. 

The door was quickly unlocked, all crowding 
forward for the first view of the’ revelation in 
store. . 

When they found but an ordinary studio, with 
its elegant disorder and unconventional art tastes, 
they were much chagrined; but Miss Penelope 
restored the confidence of her league without de- 
lay. ‘Wait a while, girls! I see through this ! 
There has been jugglery. But the laws of society 
are not to be outraged in this barefaced manner ! 
Girls, are we or are we not here in the interests 
of society ?” 

Omnes: “ Certainly !” 

“Very well! And is it not imperative that we 
should expose this abominable plot, and discover 
this impudent intruder, before going on to Brigh- 
ton for Christmas, where, take my word for it, 
if all I hear and suspect be verified, we shall have 
our work cut out to find the long and the short 
of the mystery concerning the famous Minister. 
Now is our time or never! Girls, separate, and 
go two and two for safety’s sake; let more care- 
ful search be made; examine this house from 
roof to basement; and may the blessing of the 
Goddess of Justice rest upon your devotion! I 
will go alone.” 

After this impressive invocation there was pro- 
found silence, broken by Aunt Dido, who thought 
‘fa little something” first might animate their 
much - tried, languishing endurance. But Miss 
Penelope would permit no indulgence in the ranks, 
and with wonderful heroism the battalion divided. 

Then Miss Penelope turned with anxiety to her 
nephew— 

“Tf it was not for this shocking occurrence, 
Horace, I should be seriously concerned about 
dear Aunt Dido; I fear she is going into a con- 
sumption.” 

Her nephew was cruel enough to laugh out- 
right, “I think it is a clear case of consump- 
tion.” 


7] 


With a sternly reproving gesture, Miss Penel. 
ope indicated her abhorrence of the jest. 

‘Tt is exceedingly annoying dear Marion took 
those keys!” 

“They will be here shortly, if you have done 
as you tell me.” 

“Yes, but what are we to do? We brought 
no fancy-work ; the very work-boxes are locked, 
so that we can not be at plain sewing.” 

When the aunts were at their needle-work the 
confusion of tongues outvied that of the sewing 
ladies in Genevieve de Brabant. 

“Lend me your bunch, Horace; possibly we 
may contrive to open some of the drawers.” 

‘It is very probable; but do you think, as a 
matter of courtesy, not to say of propriety, it. will 
be the correct thing to do ?” 

“Don’t you trouble about that. We will watch 
over the propriety. All I can say is, my suspicions 
are yet further aroused. If it is improper for us 
to open the drawers, there must be something not 
proper for us to see; hence we ought to see it.” 

Sir Horace smiled at this naive reasoning. The 
smile exasperated Miss Penelope, who exclaimed, 
“T-feel it is our duty to have in a lock-smith, and 
every box and drawer opened, for we are upon the 
brink of discovering a terrible crime, or I am 
mistaken. Oh, Horace, unhappy man, spare us! 
I conjure you to spare your much-troubled aunts 
further anxiety, which is killing us, by handing 
me your bunch of keys!” 

“Well, I do certainly think you are the most 
annoying staff of mischief-making old women to 
be found in the country. Any where but in En- 
gland you would have been locked up long ago. 
What society can want with such blue-bottles, 
wasps, and cockatrices, I can not imagine !”’ 

Miss Penelope gave vent to a piercing scream ; 
she had never been spoken to so plainly before 
in all the course of her honored professional ca- 
reer. It was shrill as a railway whistle, and re- 
called her straggling adherents, who swarmed to 
her assistance with a chorus of inquiry. Miss 
Penelope, pointing the finger of scorn and out- 
raged sensitiveness at that ingrate, her nephew, 
cried— 

“He calls us ‘cockatrices !’ 
my heart is broken! Did you ever hear of such 
a thing? After all we have done, all we have 
suffered, this is our reward !” 

“We shall not forget this, Horace,” said Miss 
Iphigenia, with acute sorrow. 

“JT will abide by your recollection, aunt. I con- 
sider such bands of disturbing scandal-mongers 
the pests of human happiness, existing but to 
blight man’s confidence and wreck woman’s. hon- 
or; living in a poisonous atmosphere upon gar- 
bage, with an unclean taste compared with which 
that of wolves and vultures is sweetness itself. I 
have the disgrace and irreparable calamity to be 
connected with you by relationship, and there- 
fore do not expel you, but I sincerely hope one 
of these days you will meet with a-summary dis- 
missal that will teach you a lesson for the remain- 
der of your lives.” 

They recoiled a step before this outburst of 
supplementary invective, but Miss Penelope was 
not to be scared. 

“ Girls, give mea chair!” A chair was brought, 
and the leader seated herself stiffly. ‘‘ It is well, 
nephew Sir Horace Vivian, that you are appear- 
ing in your true colors. You are not the first 


Girls, dear ones, 


72 A MODERN MINISTER. 


who has browbeaten the witness when under ex- 
amination, and thus tried to avert impending pun- 
ishment. The breach of decorum of which you 
have been guilty, the immoral conduct, the ter- 
rible mystery attendant, exposure imminent, all 
now staring you in the face, you are driven to des- 
peration, and turn upon your best friends—those 
trying to save you from the consequences of your 
folly—ina manner at once diabolical and convin- 
cing, were any other proof needed, of the enormi- 
ty of your crime. But don’t you trouble, Horace ; 
your aunts are not to be maligned from the path 
of duty and the defense of decency.” 

“ Amen!’ murmured Miss Vesta, devoutly ; and, 
much impressed by their leader’s reply, the others 
plucked up again. 

“J will drop a line to my servants,” said Sir 
Horace, with coolness, changing the discussion, 
‘requesting their return. In all probability Mar- 
ion and the girls will be with us to-morrow, and 
may not feel as disposed to rough it as your- 
selves.” 

“By all means! Very sensible of you. We 
were wishing to see your servants, if up to the 
mark, early risers, tidy dressers, clean at their 
work, small eaters, not wasteful, not fast-looking, 
and wearing decent and modest caps. We flatter 
ourselves we know what servants are, changing 
them as we do about every month; but Ill soon 
set you to rights, don’t you fear, Horace. It’s 
cruel to think of those poor dear girls of yours— 
inexperienced, guileless, unacquainted with the 
ways of the designing set, and, in so many words, 
lambs to the slaughter.” 

Sir Horace shrugged his shoulders with a gest- 
ure of mild contempt. ‘ You may rest assured 
I shall not permit you or any one to interfere with 
my daughters’ domestic arrangements.” 

““Oh, of course, you have something contra- 
dictory to propose to every scheme of reform 
we submit. Just like the men; obstinate as 
mules.” 

“T am sorry your experience has proved that 
unkind fact.” 

Miss Penelope deigned no reply, but ran on 
with her gabble. ‘“‘ And this new companion—a 
most responsible situation, and well paid for, T’ll 
be bound. We must see this person, consider 
her capacities with a clearer judgment than your- 
self or the dear girls would be likely to bestow, 
and tell you honestly if we think her qualified for 
the situation.” 

“ You need not trouble. 
courted.” 

“There, girls! You heard that with your own 
ears! And he called us blue-bottles and cock- 
atrices !” 

Glances of deep loathing turned their faces 
sombre. 

Sir Horace began to feel uneasy concerning his 
charming captive, whom he did not want to be 
stifled. 

‘“‘T don’t think you’ve seen the banner-screen 
Marion worked.” 

“Gracious! A banner-screen, and we have not 
seen it! Just what I said—every thing is hidden 
away in those drawers.” 

“Tl go and fetch it.” 

“And Ill go with you, and carry the candle, for 
you’re a shocking one at dropping the grease; all 
the stair carpets want brown paper and a hot iron 
passing over them. I tripped and nearly broke 


Your opinion is not 


my leg running after a spark you set flying in 
the corridor; we are so nervous about fire.” 

“Tt would certainly tax Captain Shaw’s good 
fellows to the utmost to extricate your party in 
the event of such a calamity.” And a wicked 
vision of a glorious hecatomb that should relieve 
the world of this obnoxious band flitted before 
Sir Horace while accompanying its leader bearing 
the light. There was no alternative: they went 
in quest of the banner-screen in company. It was 
in a chest of drawers close to the hiding-place of 
the captive, and Sir Horace talked very loud upon 
entering the room, lest the little one should give 
vent to an exclamation of joy upon hearing his 
advance. 

All was quiet. He unlocked the drawer where 
very elegant specimens of fancy-work were neatly 
arranged in order. To Sir Horace’s horror his 
aunt stooped and began smelling in the vicinity 
of the cld oak chest. 

‘“‘ Am I mistaken, Horace, or do I smell pepper- 
mint ?” 

It was but too true—that child had been at the 
bonbons, and a particularly pungent odor was 
pervading the room. 

‘‘ W ell—there—certainly—is—a pepperminty 
odor somewhere about.” 

“Yes! and if ’m not mistaken, this precious 
companion, about whom our opinion is discarded, 
keeps a sly bottle somewhere, and the cork has 
come out. If you don’t have this old chest open 
—for this is where it proceeds from—every thing 
will be spoiled. The moth is bad enough, but 
peppermint! Why, my goodness me! Faney 
going into society smelling of that!” . 

Replacing the contents of the drawer, Sir Hor- 
ace was careful to leave his latch-key on the chest. 
He hoped the child would discover it, and be 
quick enough to escape to the study. 

“Well, Pll run down with the screen, or they 
will be getting impatient.” 

“T will go with you,” remarked Miss Penelope, 
imperiously. 

“‘ And we will then return to the peppermint—”’ 

‘““And have it removed, please, or I shall not 
sleep a wink all night. There is one thing I have 
a decided objection to, and that is the smell of pep- 
permint; but if admitted—vulgarly admitted— 
into any house where I may be staying, I must 
beg leave to superintend its instant removal.” 

“‘T sympathize with your delicacy; I don’t like 
it myself.” 

“T well remember dear father once saying to 
me, ‘ Penny, had a single onion grown upon Olym- 
pus, not a god would have ventured upon that tran- 
scendent height!’ I wonder what he would have 
said under the provocation of peppermint in his 
bedroom !” 

They found the ladies in the drawing-room ; the 
banner-screen was examined, and great was the 
discussion thereon. Sir Horace took care to keep 
it up as long as possible. Then the entire party 
proceeded to Miss Penelope’s chamber in search 
of peppermint. 

A single movement in the chest voule have 
warned Sir Horace that his charge had been un- 
able to release herself from her concealment, and 
he would have withdrawn his party by some 
means ; but all was still. She had, indeed, made 
good use of her time, having crept through the 
broken back of the chest, which stood sufficiently 
distant from the wall to allow her to escape; she 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


found the latch-key and hastened back to the 
study. 

“Now,” cried Miss Penelope, catching up the 
keys, ‘‘we’ll see all about this lady companion in- 
deed, with her smuggled peppermint and superior 
ways !” 

Down upon her knees went the leader, the 
aunts all bending over her with eager expectancy ; 
Miss Dido was the only unexcited one of the party, 
but then Miss Dido was munching a cheese-cake, 
A key was found and the old cashmeres were-had 
out and unrolled—the well-known lady colors so 
dear from having been worn long years ago, an- 
tique styles, and fashions passed away, and lengths 
and widths unpicked and pinned in parcels of 
separate sweet-hued periods; but they found 
never a thing save this—a tiny strip of paper, the 
motto of one of the bonbons. This, however, 
caused an electric shock, and biting of lips, and 
grewsome looks at Sir Horace. The motto 
ran— 

He who conceals his love from slander’s grave attack 
Shows skill in that which puts it off the track; 
And gives the lie on cunning mischief bent, 
The grim desert of being,off the scent. 


Each scandal-loving spinster-maid 
Shail thus of this be made afraid. 


“Better go down to supper, I think,” said Aunt 
Dido. 

The confusion of the goddesses was complete, 
but how indefatigable was that Aunt Penelope! 

“Don’t you trouble, Horace, we’ll find out the 
composer of that little hymn. Girls,” facing 
round and addressing the squadron with military 
precision, “I see it all! Girls, sisters, my bosom 
heaves with indignation! Between this amorous 
and libidinous effusion there is bacchanal con- 
nection with the horrible spirit we came to remove ; 
and I have sad doubts, which it may not be pru- 
dent to disclose, concerning this model companion 
—companion, indeed !” 

Here was a diversion from the original, and 
the quiet, beautiful widow-lady whom Sir Horace 
honored exceedingly stood now in jeopardy. 
Leaving his aunts to digest the lyric of the bon- 
bon, Sir Horace walked down to the library, won- 
dering much whether his little friend had placed 
it there purposely. “If so,” he said to himself, 
“she is the shrewdest young monkey I’ve met 
with!” $ 

Sir Horace permitted a long interval to elapse. 
His relatives did not disturb him, and he heard 
them go quietly down to supper and next go as 
quietly up stairs again. Then hearing one and 
another of their chamber doors close softly, he 
concluded they had retired for the night, and he 
felt highly relieved in consequence. To make 
certain, Sir Horace went to the foot of the stairs 
and listened intently. All was silent, and he was 
about returning to the library, when a cold gust 
of wind met him, and set his teeth chattering. He 
at once thought of his young charge, and hoped 
the fire had not gone out in the studio, for it was 
a cold, blustering night, and he feared she would 
be lonely and cheerless. He would go to her. 
A task of some difficulty, since he did not know 
how to communicate with her. He was in favor of 
trying the court-yard, and a bare alternative was 
here presented between a shout (eminently hazard- 
ous), and a pebble to be thrown at her window. 
He accepted the latter, and went immediately in 
quest of the missile; but the flags were barren, 


73 


so, finding the door unfastened, he explored the 
narrow lane as diligently as though searching for 
the original philosopher’s stone. The wind, how- 
ever, cut round his somewhat tender head with 
disrespectful sharpness, and Sir Horace returned 
hastily for his warm reading-cap. The door had 
been closed and secured upon the inner side, and 
Sir Horace stood, a dismayed and shivering exile, 
attempting to obtain an entrance. The effort 
proved fruitless, and he hurried round to the 
front. 
_——— 


CHAPTER XIV. 
MR. BARTHOLOMEW ROLF’S BURGLARY. 


Wuen Mr. Bartholomew returned from cer- 
tain important business he had strode forth to 
see to, and entered the dingy tenement in Gray’s 
Inn Road, it was to discover the fascinating Mrs. 
Rolf calmly slumbering, and the little girl he had 
taken the trouble to entrap for the chief flown no 
one knew whither. And Mr. Bartholomew se- 
verely reproached himself for his carelessness ; 
but roughly awakening the presiding genius of 
his untidy apartments, he reprimanded that lady 
with even greater severity. 

“A pretty thing, truly! No sooner caught and 
safely caged than she has slipped through our 
fingers. Leave a woman alone for blundering, 
if she anyhow can.” 

“Steady, Bartholomew, steady. Many’s the 
time my assistance has been of service.” 

“ And might have been now. Didn’t I tell 
you Barnard was. going to hold the child in re- 
serve for finishing off the Minister ?” 

“T know. I’m awfully sorry! But now, think. 
Where will she be likely to go? Does she know 
where this Mr, Percival lives ?” 

“T believe not. No.” 

“Does she know where her mother is living ?” 

“Sure to.” 

‘“‘ And so surely will find her way there.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Bartholomew, looking thought- — 
fully at the golden coil coroneting his lady, “you 
are right; she will go there safe as the bank, I 
think I see my way to killing two birds with one 
stone, Mrs. Rolf. I happen to have an engage- 
ment down for that particular residence.” 

Mr. Bartholomew seated himself, rubbed the 
baldness crowning his long head, passed his thin 
fingers through the circle of scant gray hair, 
stretched his legs until his heels were planted 
one on either side the grate, and appeared deep 
in reflection. The florid, wolfish features became 
more prominent, cheek-bones rising high and 
hard before the flickering fire-light. 

“Been to Queen Street to-day?” he asked, 
abruptly. 

“‘ Drove round this morning.” 

“ Barnard at home ?” 

“He came in while I was there—asked wheth- 
er you had returned.” 

Mr. Bartholomew nodded, still looking in the 
fire. : 

‘“‘ Been to the warehouse ?” 

“Went on to the City after dinner.” This 
precious pair so thoroughly understood. each 
other, interrogation and reply were interchanged 
with a curt brevity that was eminently character- 
istic. 

“ Much business doing ?” 


74 


“Things appeared at a stand-still—except for 
the talking going on among the young men.” 

“Tl talk em. Want of principle, Mrs. Rolf, 
eye-service; wasted time ranks next dishonesty.” 
And like the venerable rogue he was, and very 
patriarch of hypocrites, the speaker looked grave- 
ly conscious of the unfaithful conduct of their 
clerks and warehousemen. 

“ Any thing further noticeable ?” 

“Yes, A man was looking at the Indian shawls; 
questions light and of no moment caught my atten- 
tion, kept my eyes open, saw him narrowly exam- 
ine every part of the warehouse, especially the 
books when he stood by the entry desk.” 

Mr. Bartholomew drew his breath shortly and 
whistled—a low danger signal of warning upon 
entering a tunnel; but he only said to the stylish 
blonde, “Some country customer, I suppose— 
new buyer. What was he like ?” 

“Medium height, thin, pale, short whiskers 
meeting under the chin, shaggy eyebrows, gray 
hair, a quick, abrupt manner, stealthy watching 
expression when unnoticed; gentlemanly dress— 
all black; along white hand, large blood-stone 
ring.” 

“Pass me the album.” The lady handed him 
a bulky, shabby album. The pages were dirty 
from large thumb marks, the spaces contained 
portraits of those who were or might be objects 
of especial interest. At one of these he stopped, 
and held it over for the lady’s recognition. “Is 
that him?” She nodded indifferently ; apparent- 
ly, now that she had called his attention to it, 
she dismissed it from her mind. 

“Mr. Penfold,” muttered Bartholomew to him- 

self, “solicitor to Mr. Beresford Travers: Mr. 
“Herbert Garston seen to enter the office on Sat- 
urday last; this means mischief.” Then aloud, 
“Pll take the ’bus to Bishopsgate, my dear, and 
turn in at the ‘Tuns’ for half an hour.” 

It was the evening following upon that of the 
events narrated when Mr. Bartholomew set forth 
upon his pursuit of little Ella. He had no doubt 
whatever but that he should find the child domi- 
ciled in the house of Sir Horace Vivian. In his 
earlier and less lucrative days Mr. Rolf had par- 
ticipated in the privilege of entering at will such 
residences as would probably repay his skilled 
investigation; in other words, and in the lan- 
guage of the vulgar, Mr. Rolf was a more than 
ordinarily neat-handed burglar. He had, more- 
over, enjoyed the supreme honor of instructing 
his present chief in the accomplishment. Thus 
when he set forth with a nice little case of in- 
struments, gravely respectable as some middle- 
class medical man, and playfully told the golden- 
haired lady he was about to make a call upon a 
friend, she, giving him a correspondingly playful 
thump upon the buttoned-over chest, said— 

“You dear old sinner, you! Now mind and 
take care of yourself, for I don’t want to go into 
weeds just yet.” 

A doleful sentiment, without depressing influ- 
ence upon the philosophic artist, who, replying, 
“Leave me alone, my charmer, for taking care 
of myself. Ta! ta!” with a wolfish sort of kiss, 
and an oath at the wind for turning his umbrella 
inside out, before he had proceeded six steps, 
he jauntily made for the narrower and quiet- 
er thoroughfares, having a decided objection to 
the more garish and highly illumined pathways. 
Thus, in place of proceeding by Oxford Street, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Mr. Bartholomew glided decorously round a cor- 
ner, a shady corner where there did not happen 
to be a gas lamp or a dazzling gin palace, and 
along a shady street connected. By the quietest 
and shadiest of streets, coming out by the Mar- 
ble Arch, and crossing the Park, he selected a 
dull-looking public-house, where he sat in the 
bar parlor until closing time, when he took an 
easy saunter along Knightsbridge, turning sharp 
at a dark alley, and waiting there within shadow 
of a doorway, from which he could see every 
passer-by while unseen, This was a move very 
customary in Mr. Rolf’s tactics, and it was upon 
the self-protecting policy, it being so very uncer- 
tain whether those interested in his welfare were 
closer than he considered agreeable. With easy 
negligence, as though returning to some select 
home thereabouts, the tall man threaded Wilton 
Place and Wilton Crescent, and came into Bel- 
grave Square, walking carelessly past.the man- 
sion whereat he was about to make a call, notic- 
ing with peculiar satisfaction that the family had 
retired for the night. Then the tall man disap- 
peared; so suddenly, that, had any one beeh ob- 
serving from the opposite side, it would have 
been difficult to define the precise spot of that 
abrupt vanishing. Mr. Rolf turned up again in 
a narrow lane at the rear of one side of the 
square, and proceeded to effect an entrance with- 
out delay. 

It was Mr. Bartholomew Rolf who fastened 
the door upon the irate Sir Horace, that gentle- 
man giving his aunts the credit for the hard- 
hearted action. 

Mr. Rolf, thus master of the field for a time, 
far from suspecting the reception in store for 
him, stood at the foot of the great staircase. 
With the utmost caution and circumspection he 


removed his boots, which he stowed in the pock-° 


ets of his overcoat, with a small implement in 
hand, taken from the case and folded in wash- 
leather, a thick woolen shawl, the property of 
the blonde, brought for the purpose of envelop- 
ing the child, and, if need be, stifling her cries, 
over his shoulder, he stealthily proceeded up 
stairs, and for so large a person he certainly 
moved at pleasure with singular lightness. Not 
so light but that he was heard, and that by the 
lynx-like ears of the goddess Penelope. 

The quiet and contented retiring to rest of the 
tribe had been a craftily organized ruse, “ where- 
by,” said Miss Penelope, “we shall catch him. 
He will think we are asleep, and come stealing 
up stairs, and then will be our time; but be per- 
fectly still, girls, until I give the signal, then let 
us pounce upon him.” This ingenious conspira- 
cy and ambuscade was accepted by all but Aunt 
Dido, who, having eaten an enormous supper, 
was troubled with heaviness upon the chest, and 
preferred retiring in earnest. The leader assent- 
ed, for her sister was sometimes afflicted with 
tormented slumber arising of indigestion in its 
most punishing form. 

Now it happened to be the chamber door of 
the ravenous goddess upon which Mr. Bartholo- 
mew first operated. That symmetrical plaything 
he carried incased in leather admitted him noise- 
lessly. It has been described how that Mr. Bar- 
tholomew was not in any sense a prepossessing 
individual ; indeed, his appearance was calculated 
to give any nervous person a very severe shock. 
Thus when Miss Dido, in the throes of nightmare, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


opened an eye customarily engaged upon similar 
research to that of the honey-bee, the seeking 
for sweet provender, that eye encountered, by 
the dim light of a six hours’ burner deposited in 
the foot-bath, the ghastly-looking being glower- 
ing down upon her, she truly imagined Charon 
or some other infernal dignitary had waited upon 
her at last. Mr. Rolf, on his part, when the 
frilled-in face turned to the light, saw that he 
had entered the wrong apartment, and withdrew ; 
it was not his design to molest any person, unless 
molested. Imagine his astonishment at seeing a 
strong body of females, whose number appeared 
countless, clustered upon the landing, which, 
dimly shadowy, might, for all he knew, hold in 
reserve a throng that would possibly rise in de- 
fense and cut off his retreat. Had he made a 
mistake in the house? Penetrated the sacred 
precincts of a convent? Or had he to brave 
the timorously excited garrison of a fashionable 
boarding-school? <A variety of speculative ques- 
tions darted through the fertile mind of Mr. Bar- 
tholomew. He was no melodramatic burglar with 
crowbar and dark-lantern; he rather practiced 
upon the fine-art principle, and thus had not the 
advantage of a light which would have revealed 
the number and strength of the enemy. Con- 
sciousness of a mistake somewhere dawned upon 
him, when the foremost of the shadowy females 
thus addressed him with sepulchral effect: 

‘So we’ve caught you, after all: the key to the 
mystery lies in dear Dido’s room!” 

“ A private lunatic asylum,” said Mr. Bartholo- 
mew to himself. He was of a brave nature, of 
a hardy calibre. There was but one thing on 
earth that he feared, and that was a female 
lunatic; but this gave promise of an attack by 
myriads of shadowy female lunatics, the fore- 
most of whom closing upon him he deftly las- 
soed her with the amiable Mrs. Rolf’s best 
woolen shawl; then, clearing the stairs six at a 
bound, made for the front-door amid the yells 
and shrieks of the astonished females. Forcing 
open the door, and knocking over a gentleman 
waiting to be admitted—the noble owner, in fact 
—Mr. Rolf made the circuit of the square with 
considerably more expedition than when upon 
the cool inspection of the buildings. He felt ex- 
ceedingly savage, and, to a large extent, puzzled, 
and ultimately resolved that but one head could 
ever explain it, or deal with the odd occurrence 
—the head of his friend Noel Barnard. 


Se 


CHAPTER XV. 
SIR HORACE’S DEVICE. 


Wuen Sir Horace had recovered from the on- 
slaught which fairly took his breath away, and 
entered his house, it was to discover his aunts 
standing step above step in a state of the wildest 
excitement. Their nephew was as much astonish- 
ed as his devoted relatives ; but these indulged in 
bitter censure, reproaching him for surreptitious- 
ly leaving the house in the dead of the night, and 
exposing them to peril from assassins and every 
thing else that is hideous stalking at midnight. 

“ Well, it’s pretty certain,” said Sir Horace, 
“that a man has obtained an entrance; but when 
and how is more than I can fathom; neither can 
I conveive what for.” 


75 


“What for ?” echoed Aunt Penelope, indignant- 
ly. ‘Why, of course he knew that we were here ; 
his diabolical purpose glared upon us from his 
fierce eyes. It was abduction, Horace! In the 
miscreant who has fled before our determined re- 
sistance there lives the modern Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert. Feel thankful, Horace, your poor dear 
aunts have escaped the peril.” 

Sir Horace was wicked enough to laugh at this. 
“T think you may be mistaken,” he said, simply ; 
“the man’s object was probably plunder.” 

“ Just what we say; and we wish we had nev- 
er entered this house—we feel no longer safe.” 

“Great Jove !” murmured the irreverent neph- 
ew, while the ladies hastened to the chamber of 
their sister with shocked and horrified expressions 
of countenance ; for had not the midnight mon- 
ster been seen to quit that very apartment? In 
sorry groups they stood around her couch, and 
the confused movement awoke the gentle sleeper. 
Self-possessed in a moment, and glancing at the 
circle of lowered eyelids, she asked, faintly, ‘‘ How 
long to wait before breakfast ?” 

With a moan of anguish, utterly overcome, the 
more spiritualized Miss Penelope left the room. 
Sadder and wiser, the goddess sisters followed in 
her rear. 

Meantime Sir Horace had availed himself of 
the opportunity to try the outer door of the re- 
treat, and it yielded to his pressure. Little Ella 
had long expected his coming: she had been pa- 
tiently waiting, unaware how near she had been 
to another and a worse danger. Sir Horace would 
not excite her terror by any description of recent 
events; and he had a more anxious thought, for, 
according to the natural order of things, this 
would be their last stolen meeting ; Lady Vivian 
would certainly be home upon the morrow, and 
something must be done. Very tenderly he de- 
tailed pressing difficulties, and said, 

‘We shail soon have to part, I fear, my little 
girl; and Iam sorry. Ishould be glad if you could 
stay with us entirely, and look upon our house as 
your home.” 

“ And I should be glad also, for I love you very 
much—very much !” 

Her eyes were full of tears; she had taken his 
hand half reverently and pressed it to her lips. 
It was a pretty action, and moved him; he kiss- 
ed her white brow gratefully. ‘You are a dear 
affectionate child, and should not be tossing upon 
the sea of life alone.” 

“Nay, I have my mother; and when I once 
find her, all will be well.” 

“ Poor child!” thought Sir Horace ; ‘how sim- 
ple she talks, little thinking of all that may have 
happened to her mother long ere this!” Then 
aloud, ‘“‘ Yes, but until your mother is restored to 
you, something must be done; you will require 
looking after, and this is what I am worrying my 
head over.” 

Ella seemed thoughtful, and for a time was si- 
lent. Sir Horace also was quietly revolving his 
plans. ‘I wonder whether she would ?” he ask- 
ed of himself, aloud. ‘It might at least be rep- 
resented to her.” Ella thought he referred to her 
ladyship; and it was with a beating heart she 
heard him thus explain— 

“The lady who is now acting as the friend 
and travelling companion of my daughters told 
me she either had, or once had—I’m sure I forget 
which—a little girl, and I noticed that her voice 


76 


trembled when she alluded to the child. From 
the emotion displayed I am sure she loved her 
child ardently, and would, I feel certain, be won 
by your present motherless position. If I could 
but représent the whole affair to this lady, she 
might, at least for a time (until your own mother 
be discovered), adopt you as her daughter. This 
just occurs to me as a means of extricating us 
from our plight; what do you think of it?” 

Thrilled and affected beyond measure, the nat- 
urally ingenuous and warm-hearted little girl 
could sustain her part no’ longer, but bursting 
into tears, half of joy and half of sorrow that she 
had not told him before, and burning hot with 
lovely confusion, she explained all to him with a 
broken quivering eloquence that was inexpressibly 
touching. 

The genial Sir Horace grasped both the humor 
of the situation and the delicate position in which 
the child had found herself placed. While fully 
sympathizing with her reticence he was charmed 
with the outburst of candor, and said, cheerfully, 
“Well, do not cry, little girl; my scheme will 
answer just as well, and a degree better: make 
yourself quite happy; we shall manage it beauti- 
fully, I can see!” 

Happy! Nay, the birds twittering away below 
the eaves were not more happy than was Ella 
now, with her mind relieved of any sense of du- 
plicity, and her heart’s truest affections permitted 
to assert their sovereignty. 

Her gratitude—and upon this she could put no 
control—was very deep, too deep for many words ; 
and when, later on, Sir Horace returned to his 
books, he felt more satisfied and self-possessed 
than for a long time past. 


(a 


CHAPTER XVI. 
“WALTER”? PROMPTS REMEMBRANCE OF ST. AUBYN. 


THERE was delicate entanglement at the wood- 
land studio. Lord Ellerby, with his love of youth 
and of beauty, and his intense sympathy with the 
artistic and the aspirations for the ideal, could 
not but be deeply interested in the impassioned 
boy with the lovely face ; and, partly for his own 
pleasure, partly for the pleasure of the boy’s 
friend ‘“ Walter,” he gave him open invitation to 
the house. This Master Lorry accepted unhesi- 
tatingly; it was too great a temptation to resist. 
Besides, Lorry was eminently dutiful, and his 
clever mamma had so strictly enjoined him, if by 
good fortune he should cross paths with St. Au- 
byn’s fugitive, to improve his acquaintance with 
that vivacious young lady, that he felt bound to 
doso. Moreover, he was impressed by her beauty, 
and a little startled and much perplexed by the 
quaintness of her mode of conducting herself. 
Unconsciously he was falling into most perfect 
obedience and compliance with his accomplished 
parent’s injunctions. He began to love this 
strange girl, and was proportionately perplexed, 
because, for the life of him, he could not under- 
stand which of his two companions he loved the 
most. But he was a little afraid of the high- 
spirited Lena, while fascinated by her childish in- 
genuousness and dainty moods, varied as the sun- 
shine; and he would turn to “ Walter” with ap- 
preciation stronger than ever, and dwell with the 
tenderest thoughts upon her graver and more ex- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


quisite charms. Altogether, there was delicate 
entanglement in the artist’s home. 

As a matter of fact, Lena was really exposed 
to considerable risk, what with the artist himself, 
and this captivating boy. She really and truly 
felt that she loved ‘‘ Walter” with no slight 
measure of attachment. It was a curious dilem- 
ma, and it spoke volumes for her love for St. Au- 
byn that she preserved it pure, unapproached, 
uninjured, undiminished. Yet was she exposed 
to danger of a subtle kind, for the first time, all 
unsuspected by herself, and increasing with every 
hour. The result might have been perilous to 
that first place St. Aubyn occupied in her heart, 
had it not been for ‘“ Walter,” who, very observant, 
knowing much of the world, and more of the heart, 
saw this girl—the friend, companion, sister— 
menaced by mixed hazard, and in imminent risk 
of being entoiled and enmeshed in the silken fet- 
ters of a foolish day-dream. So “ Walter” talked 
to her gently of home, and fanned the memory of 
the past, awakening trepidation in her bosom, and 
leading the playful truant to consider how strange 
St. Aubyn must think this lengthened absence. 
“And be careful,” said the monitor, “lest he 
should never forgive you. Great love may be 
bent, but it may also be broken; and not all the 
penitence of innocence and sorrow can heal 
wounds caused lightly and unthinkingly.” Lena 
saddened thereat, but was very far from fearing 
any change of this kind in the love of her poet- 
guardian. “Still, for all that, I must be getting 
home as soon as ever I can!” she said. But the 
company of Lorry and the artist was very pleasant 
to her, and for the day at least she still staid on, 
despite that friendly warning. 

She did not know the lonely soul that was beat- 
ing its passionate sorrow out against thé bars of 
its isolation; did not know of his awful seasons 
when despair was the pillow whereon his aching 
head tossed feverishly; did not know of an an- 
guish, the plaint of sorrows that can not die, and 
wail of hopes that will not live. Lena knew 
nothing of the gray coast-line of trouble that 
sometimes bounds half a life, whereon pangs and 
memories loom massive as monster blocks of 
ebony, a Titan chain of sad remembrances which 
create the barrier forbidding passage. Such lim- 
its to a love were happily unknown to her, and, 
with the buoyancy of childhood, she thought that 
the tearful explanation, the caress and wooing to 
forgiveness, would make all right, and restore the 
tender kindness, ay, and the loving confidence; 
for the one would be useless without the other. 

In that dim and solemn chapel to the right of 
the High Altar in the Church, of Santa Maria 
Novella, in Florence, is a painting, the ‘‘ Miracle” 
of Filippino Lippi, which possesses the curious 
attraction of failing to impress the beholder in 
any marked manner, but which grows upon one 
afterward when time and distance and change of 
scene should apparently obscure its detail and 
feature, if not its recollection altogether. The 
strange, subtle touches, the sensitive expression, 
the infinite delicacy, live vividly and dwell in the 
heart long after broad canvas dreams—the pride 
of the fair city of flowers—have faded from the 
mind. So Lena now reflected upon all that won- 
drous wealth of love and careful solicitude, all 
the delicate forethought and devoted tenderness, 
which from her childhood had been bestowed 
upon her by him from whom she had fled. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 77 


CHAPTER XVII. 
THE PILGRIM AND THE SHRINE. 


A womay, bitten by keen gusts of wind, was 
walking along a white road, bare of border foli- 
age, the skeleton limbs of weird trees tracing fan- 
tastic figures upon her path. 

A moon-lighted way, but bleak, scoured by the 
pioneer blasts of winter. 

The wind cut the homely face; and scattered 
the bandings of gray hair with malicious disre- 
gard as often as she smoothed them patiently 
back, while she quickly continued her way as 
though some momentous issue were at stake. 

She was an elderly woman, but a sturdy walk- 
er, and kept on with indomitable energy; past 
mile-stones that told how far she had come, how 
far she had to go; past finger-posts that pointed 
the way with spectral form, and bore the curt in- 
scription To Lonpon; past solitary churches, 
standing upon the outskirts of broad parishes, 
the moonlight defining the square and massive 
walls of stone; past dwellings of the wealthy, 
mansions isolated and environed by plantations, 
a light through crimson curtains reminding the pil- 
grim of another stately residence left far back upon 
the road; past farms, peacefully still; penned 
cattle below sloping sheds, gray ricks, ponds 
overspread with the first thin coat of ice; past 
cottages where the country-folk had long ago re- 
tired to rest—and the woman experiences a pang 
as each is left behind, remembering a small cot- 
tage in another part of England, where each night 
an old mother, laying her glasses upon the Bible, 
clasps her hands in silent prayer for her only 
daughter. 

It is night, it is time for rest; it is cold, it is 
time for warmth ; it is hunger-time with her, it is 
the season for refreshing exhausted nature; but 
she disregards them all obstinately. 

Her small stock of money was lessening day by 
day; with homely calculation she had believed it 
would carry her through her journey if she spent 
none of it upon travelling. She had overheard 
sufficient of Mrs. Brandon’s scheme to understand 
that the treacherous woman had succeeded in aid- 
ing the child’s cherished wish. And when Mar- 
tha Saxe learned this, after her suspicions had 
been aroused, and she had made fruitless search 
for Lena over the whole house and grounds, she 
never paused to ask herself if she were equal to 
the mission, but went straight to her own room 
and dressed for a long pilgrimage, saying nothing 
of her plan, and leaving unobserved, taking with 
her little enough, but yet her whole worldly 
wealth. 

“He has been a good, kind master to me,” she 
said, while descending the steep cliff, thinking 
how bitterly St. Aubyn’s heart would be pierced 
should he return before his darling was brought 
back, ‘and Lena I love as though I were her 
foster-mother. I'll bring her back to him, if I 
walk my feet off, and kill myself with weariness.” 

It was a dogged, uncultivated fondness and de- 
votion ; but the heart was in it. 

She knew that, for a long distance at least, the 
young explorer must keep to the old coaching road, 
for the line of railway was remote, and the near- 
est station was miles upon the route. And she 
walked very swiftly, hoping, after all, to overtake 
her fugitive young lady. Sad, disappointed in her 
search, toiling on from point to point with a heart 


that was growing heavier, accepting the conscious- 
ness that she must walk on to London to find her 
whom she sought. And she set forth upon the 
remainder, the apparently interminable remain- 
der, of her pilgrimage with a devotion partaking 
more of the dumb faithfulness of the brutes than 
that of a human being. Merely a simple, uncul- 
tivated country-woman in domestic service; and 
upon this pitiless night march, blown upon, frost- 
nipped, faint with cold, aching with weariness, 
uncertain of the issue of her quest, not knowing 
and not caring for any thing else, for was not the 
child whom she loved—wayward, spoiled, fickle, 
petted, loved through it all and beyond it—adrift ? 
Upon the wide world somewhere. Adrift! 

And she had no compass, nor guide, nor chart, 
to direct her, save that love of hers, and for that 
she would walk till the child was found; would 
walk every street in the city, would walk till she 
dropped ; and then—well, then she would sit at 
some street corner and watch every face that 
passed, watch by day and by night, watch till 
sight grew dim and eyes went blind; and then— 
then would sing through the streets, all the length 
and the breadth of them, sing one of the child’s 
own favorite songs, sing until the child’s voice 
answered, and her labor or her life would end. 

There was plenty of sight and strength and 
sinew left as yet, however, and she marched sturd- 
ily on, crooning a ballad learned on the country- 
side where, with others, she had despoiled the 
hop-poles and gathered in the green bloom of 
Kentish gardens. It was rather a dolorous ditty 
out there by herself, and the crisp echoes seemed 
to snatch at it, and distort it into something su- 
pernaturally hollow and weird. She clapped her 
hands for warmth, and the noise frightened her. 
A rabbit ran across her path; like all the rest it 
was gray, and she thought this small comfort. 
How long the stars were in twinkling! Many a 
night she had watched beneath their tender light, 
but they seemed to dislike appearing upon this 
night of endless grayness. She passed a road- 
side ale-house; the sign was covered with rime, 
the porch crystallized, the wagoner’s bench shin- 
ing like glass, the horse-trough caked with ice, 
the small shed at the rear a dim, colorless hollow ; 
no lights; all silent, while the tenants slept their 
first heavy sleep. 

She just sighed, stamped with her feet, rubbed 
her hands together, and went on. 

The ale-house was left behind; then there was 
a bleak common, a half-frozen morass, where a 
bed of alders, straight and thin, seemed to be 
holding a mist that had settled like a tent all 
about the fenny oasis. There was a strange build- 
ing, where some man once had built a tower, and 
had seated himself therein at night, with a great 
glass by which he read star-language, the letters 
of which are countless ; and when he had passed 
from his tower and flown to yet clearer knowledge, 
another man, to utilize the thing (not one with 
astronomical research), turned it into a chimney, 
added a lime-kiln, and made lime and bricks; 
earth again! But it had its uses ; it cheered the 
tramping wayfarer, dispersed the chill mist, sent 
up a volume of smoke—only gray on gray cer- 
tainly, but variety, which is the death of monot- 
ony. And it made a noise; a rumbling, subter- 
ranean noise, but it was a change from the quiet 
ehastliness of the way-side. Thus that tower and 
its lime-kiln corrected the quagmire, and, albeit 


78 


with grumbling and with smoke, made it bear- 
able; and this is the use of neighborliness. 

What would society be without such corrective 
influences ? What the air of summer without its 
poison-consuming flies? Martha Saxe did not 
trouble herself about this; she walked up to the 
burning mass brisk and brusque, warmed herself 
all round, and walked on again. A thin air seem- 
ed to have risen; there was a crispness and 
keenness, a tremulous. quivering and peculiar dis- 
tinctness, attached to things seen and heard. It 
was the birth of a new day, when the morrow 
had commenced; she did not know this, but at- 
tributed the singular feeling to quitting the kiln, 
and shook herself, and pinned her tartan shawl 
tighter, walking on with quicker strides and a re- 
liant look up at the hueless vault, as she mut- 
tered— 

“Bless ’em, the gems !” 

It was the stars. As though suddenly released, 
they had burst forth, spread broad, o’erarching, 
glittering, merrily bright, as though joyous at be- 
ing liberated ; and they were wonderful company. 

‘“‘ Wherever have you been all this time ?” and 
Martha looked at the most roguish as though she 
would like to give them a good shaking. She did 
not suppose they would hear, but it was sociable 
having a word with them; and as she recognized 
one after another as she had seen them nights 
back in her history, it was with as genial greeting 
as one bestows upon the faces of chance compan- 
ions of our travel. 

Once she asked a stranger how far it was to 
London. The destination had seemed nearer by 
a long span; but there were still miles to go, and 
she could not tell whether or not another day 
would close before she entered the city. “I wish 
I could go up yonder,” she thought, “and look 
to see how far it is off!” 

A clearer gray was extending far and wide. 
The limbs of long lines of trees were more sharply 
defined. No color as yet; the outline, however, 
became more vigorous, more easily traced upon 
the finer horizon. And still sparkling, as caught 
in the trellis of boughs, her friends, those cheer- 
ing stars! 

Not much poetry in her, but an uncultured 
piety that was deeper than culture, and this told 
of One who held those stars for guidance and 
direction. She passed a way-side chapel, unadorn- 
ed, bare, bleak as the lands, yet it was of her faith ; 
and she, who knew not it is the custom in coun- 
tries far remote from her own, knelt down by its 
door and prayed that He who directed and guided 
both men and stars so wisely would shape her 
course unerringly. 

Then she went on her way again. 

Stones upon the road shone back the pale 
glimmer of the sky. “If these were jewels,” 
she thought, ‘I would gather all I could carry, 
and sell them when I get to London, to help me 
in my search.” 

She passed a tiny brook. She had never been 
told of Tennyson, but she heard this babbling 
away, and said to it, ““ Why don’t you tell me how 
far off my lady lies, by starlight?” She had once 
laughed pleasantly at the jingle, in an earlier 
home where the young master sang it, when he 
had been wont to tell this favorite servant of loves 
and peccadilloes he did not tell his parents. 

The brook curved and cornered onward to a 
wood; the banks were laden with leaves, bronze 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


seemingly, by daylight russet and red, as when, 
blushing to the sunset, they fell in odorous au- 
tumn. 

She recalled the years gone by, the garden on 
the cliff, and thought yearningly of the little feet 
that had used to scatter other russet leaves while 
playing with the master’s hound; of a kissable 
wee mouth lifted prettily for a caress; of a chase 
among the roses, and a bounding to the brink 
until her very heart had been still, and she could 
not cry out; of the little nook in the sloping lawn, 
where Princess had bidden her bury the slender 
limbs beneath whole showers of the fallen cactus 
bloom, and when the dainty little face peered from 
out the gorgeous coverlet like the sole white 
flower of a garden of crimson; of games at hide- 
and-seek, when, like some fairy, Lena would part 
the leaves of wide-spanned, pale-flowered shrubs, 
and glide upon her homely playmate from odd 
corners of the wilderness. It had been all one 
sweet and pleasant time, and if this faithful soul 
could restore it, she would feel content. 

Somehow she had wandered away from the 
wide white road, although pursuing a parallel di- 
rection. She did not trouble, so long as she was 
right, and this was all in her way. 

The brook wound down to a canal, a broad in- 
tersecting course, the paths of which in summer- 
time were held in favor for the rural surround- 
ings. Some distance ahead, advanced a light 
slowly along the sluggish water-ways where a 
barge was floating its weighty burden cityward. 
Nearer, a horse came in sight, toiling with jerky 
irregular progress along the bank. It all bore a 
weird, looming, silent effect, and the woman stood 
aside while the bulky freight glided past and on. 

A wood extended almost to the bank of the 
canal. By its means, indeed, large rafts of timber 
had been floated thence to yards among great 
buildings, where a teeming population, going 
home from factory work, watched the thing won- 
deringly, and speculated on the distance to where 
those girded trees had grown. 

The brook was left behind, the canal was lost 
sight of, the pathway bore round and through the 
wood until it joined the road some distance from 
the point where she left it. But she was not out 
of the wood vet. 

-Now she did not lose the path, or get lost, or 
discover a cave, or disturb poachers, or meet with 
any terrible adventure; but she did just come 
upon some still smouldering ashes of a goodly- 
sized fire not long since abandoned by a tribe of 
nomads, who, having broken up their camp, were 
journeying elsewhere. 

There was sufficient heat remaining to warm 
this poor woman’s hands, and she leaned over the 


embers of wood and peat, warming herself and 


feeling glad. She pulled the pieces together and 
made a comfortable little fire; she fanned this, 
and a well-dried twig was caught into a blaze, 
The recesses of the wood were lighted up, gaunt 
tree trunks stood forth like scaffolding, a maze of 
gray paths and misty coverts were discovered by 
the flickering blaze, a rusted trap was hanging 
from the branch of a tree, and the smoke crept 
up through rime-laden boughs, the wood crackled 
and made noises like footsteps on dried sticks, 
and from looking at the fire she could not see 
distinctly, yet as by glimmering consciousness she 
knew that she was not alone. Half afraid to turn 
her head, she felt her hands tremble above the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


blaze, which she now wished would suddenly die 
out, with all its attendant revelations. By a 
species of rude instinct she knew the quickest 
method of regaining the powers of vision was by 
looking fixedly upon something dark; she looked 
upon the ground, and gradually the sight adjusted 
its delicate perception. She could distinguish, ay, 
and discover! Upon the ground she saw a sim- 
ple thing, no more than a small bow of tasteful 
ribbon, but it aroused her to instant cautiousness. 
She recognized it ; made by her own hand, it had 
been worn at a tender throat by a cherished girl 
dear to her as life, and her whole being thrilled 
at the discovery. 

With apparent carelessness, but with a fierce 
grip, she secured it, still certain some shadowy 
watch was upon her, and, while rising, she con- 
signed it to her pocket; then turned, to find the 
chill warning verified. 

Between the gray skeleton trees, in the front of 
gray paths and misty coverts, the gloomy recesses 
arching a long perspective of cloisters, there stood 
the man whose visit to the House upon the Cliff 
had caused wonder, whose singular presence had 
inspired feelings of blended distrust and awe. 

Unfolding his arms, and striding into the open 
space beside the fire, Noel Barnard stood before 
the woman, with commanding attitude, and, as it 
seemed to her, a stern expression of countenance. 

‘“‘T meet you far from home, Mrs. Saxe! May I 
ask what brings you out upon such a chilly night ?” 

With a quiet courtesy and perfect respect, the 
woman answered according to her custom—truth- 
fully. 

“Our young lady has been decoyed from her 
home: I overheard Mrs. Brandon trying to poison 
her mind and make her discontented. Directly I 
found the darling had left the house, while our 
master was away, I set off, to follow her, to find 
her, to bring her back.” 

It was a strange meeting this, in the gray dawn, 
by those smouldering embers; and the shifting 
lights or the thoughts troubling him caused the 
tall man’s face to change curiously. 

“ You appear tired; how long have you been 
walking ?” 

“Every step of the way; you know how far 
back itis. I know nothing of miles and distance.” 

‘“‘A singular proceeding, Mrs. Saxe. Has it 
struck you the pursuit is a degree foolish ?” 

She turned upon him angrily. “It has struck 
me that may be the view taken of it; I do not 
heed; were the child all to you she has been to 
me, you might not call it foolish.” 

More gray, more troubled, became the face; 
then he held forth his white, weird hand. 

‘“‘ Give me your hand, Martha Saxe; you are an 
honest and faithful woman. Your devotion will 
be rewarded.” 

She gave him her hand, very much surprised, 
and trying, with shrewd common-sense, to recon- 
cile the sudden apparition of this person with the 
discovery of that tell-tale bow of ribbon. She 
stole inquiring side looks all about her, that 
aroused cautiousness preparing her for any thing ; 
she stole searching glances upon right, hand and 
left. hand, darting a quick scrutiny at the iron 
cast of features before her. 

_“Tunderstand,” he remarked, slowly, measuring 
his words, as by intuition he fathomed his com- 
panion’s thoughts; ‘you wonder how far from 
a dropped gewgaw may the owner be found? 


79 


Good: not far, so the loss be known. But now 
to ease your mind, my faithful soul, I will tell you 
that Miss St. Aubyn is perfectly safe at no great 
distance from where we stand, and that you shall 
be with her very shortly.” 

The words were spoken seriously, with none of 
the characteristic mocking drollery, and she felt 
an intensity of gratitude beyond description. To 
hear that the child was safe, and that her sojourn- 
ing-place was known to this stranger, first seen 
by the faithful woman as a guest at her master’s 
table, caused her joy she had little expected thus 
early on her course. Simple though she was, 
foolish though she might be, her worth and pa- 
tience and devotion were so marked that they 
won recognition even of her usually unimpression- 
able companion. He believed the heart would 
have beat its poor life out upon those lone roads 
and highways for the sake of that dearly loved 
fugitive, and he was right. 

‘Now listen to what I am about to say. Your 
young mistress is in the care of a gentleman who, 
were we to go by daylight and demand the fugi- 
tive, would probably refuse to hear any thing we 
had to say—first from his liking for her, and next 
for the sake of Mr. St. Aubyn, to whom alone, no 
doubt, he will voluntarily surrender her. I can 
admit you to the house and direct you to her 
chamber; are you prepared to undertake the 
rest ?” 

“T will go through fire and water for my dear 
child.” 

“Very well: you will have to go through neither. 
Leave your shoes down stairs and move about 
softly ; cross the hall, mount the stairs facing the 
entrance; the second front-room above is occu- 
pied by Miss Lena; take care, however, your 
young lady does not scream and alarm the art- 
istic dreamer in charge. Now, Mistress Martha. 
Saxe, here are ten sovereigns wherewith to take 
yourself and companion home. You will keep 
any money remaining as a slight acknowledgment 
of your service. You wonder why I display this 
interest—this generous interest, as you will think 
it? Frankly, Mrs. Saxe, I am a philanthropist, 
having the welfare of your young lady and of all 
such very much at heart, and deeming it at once 
a privilege and a duty to help them when in my 
power. I feel for this poor child, so differently 
placed from what she ought to be, under the roof 
of the stranger, at the mercy of the deuce knows 
who! I see a tear in your eye, Mrs. Saxe. No? 
Ah, then I was mistaken; I am very tender-heart- 
ed—a sore failing; but never mind, it is better 
than being hard and stern and unfeeling: and 
you will take care to get her home quickly as pos- 
sible, obliging me by not mentioning my name in 
connection with Miss St. Aubyn’s recovery, either 
to herself or to her papa. Take all the credit, 
my dear Mrs. Saxe, for you richly deserve it.” 

‘¢T will observe your wishes, Sir, and thank you 
kindly. I’m grateful to you, for if it wasn’t for 
the help you are lending I might have been a long 
time finding my young lady, and a still longer 
time getting home again.” 

“Now for it, then; let’s see what sort of a 
hand you are at a burglary. It behooves every 
honest person, Mrs. Saxe, to be acquainted with 
those arts practiced by the dishonest, in order 
that one may successfully understand the method 
of working recognized by the unprincipled. A 
few years ago I was presented to some monarch 


80 A MODERN MINISTER. 


—forget the fellow’s name—out in the East— 
‘Are you wise man or rogue?’ asked he, recog- 
nizing no medium, Of course I would not under- 
stand the impertinent and personal query; but 
the interpreter explained to me that his Majesty 
greatly preferred the society of the latter, since 
he could learn so much from them of use in the 
government of his country, while their learning 
would not outshine his own. I immediately ad- 
mitted myself to be the biggest rogue extant, 
whereupon he had the Grand Vizier stripped of 
his purple, and decked my unworthy self there- 
with; and the very first honorable duty appoint- 
ed me was to break into the said Grand Vizier’s 
palace and rob him of his last, and of course fa- 
vorite, wife, whom the wicked monarch had like- 
wise taken a fancy to. Our approaching exploit 
_ reminds me of it, Mrs. Saxe. If I hadn’t previ- 
ously received instruction in the operation from 
a reformed house-breaker, I shouldn’t have known 
how to set about it, and should have sacrificed 
my head, for that enlightened monarch was one 
of those with whom failure was simply an intro- 
duction to the executioner. However, I had the 
honor of effecting an entrance; we also effected 
the theft ; but in the morning his Sublime Majes- 
ty, coming to see the lady himself, discovered her 
to be contrary to his anticipations, and took a vio- 
lent dislike toher. As rogue-in-chief the delicate 
and pleasant office fell to my lot the succeeding 
night of smuggling the fair Vizieress back again. 
Having deprived her spouse of the purple, he nat- 
urally exhibited any thing but an amicable regard 
for myself, and my ingenuity was again taxed how 
to save my head. I addressed the monarch at 
some length upon the glory attending the suc- 
cessful accomplishment of any uncommonly ar- 
duous undertaking, and told him how reluctant I 
should be to deprive him of one iota of his well- 
deserved renown—well-deserved, Mrs. Saxe, be- 
cause he was the most terrible scamp in his very 
warm dominions. I discoursed at random (as is 
my custom in the presence of royalty, from the 
excitement consequent upon proximity thereto), 
but with extreme impressiveness, his majesty be- 
ing particularly moved by my recounting how, in 
my own land, the poets made immortal the illus- 
trious performers of such achievements. In short, 
I fired his ambition to so extraordinary a degree 
that he positively would not allow me to have any 
thing to do with it. And he accomplished the 
feat, conveyed the much-wronged lady back to the 
harem he had despoiled, and, I presume, had the 
additional temerity to run upon an ambush of 
ebony avengers, whose cimeters bereaved their 
country of its sire. Shocking goings on out that 
way, Mrs. Saxe! We have much to be thankful 
for: I hope you contribute to the Foreign Mis- 
sions? I expect some day to be president of 
one of these estimable societies. ‘I live with one 
hope, Mr. Barnard,’ a lady friend said to me once ; 
‘it is that you may yet address us in Exeter Hall.’ 
‘Madam,’ I answered, ‘ whenever the discernment 
of my fellow-creatures calls me to that noble plat- 
form, rest assured I shall not be backward in 
coming forward. Our race, like our books, has 
been my study; literally, I have lived upon the 
black and white, and I may say I have profited 
by this intimate fellowship.’ She appeared to be 
much affected, but one can never tell whether this 
sort. of thing is real, Mrs. Saxe; and if there is 
one thing more despicable than another, it is the 


assumption of false sentiment. Now cross the 
kitchen. Softly does it. Good-by, and don’t for- 
get.” 

All the time of his apparently idle chatter, 
which, like all that he said and did, had an object, 
he was leading the way; so taking up her atten- 
tion that she had not noticed the route, beyond 
the lane leading to the main road; and before 
she was conscious of his actions, executed with 
the finesse of legerdemain, he opened the door of 
the woodland cottage, and she was lightly dis- 
missed with the adieu described; and it was with 
a singular sensation that Mrs. Saxe thus found 
herself in somebody’s kitchen at the break of the 
dawn. The bright pots and pans on the shining 
black shelf below the dresser recalled the ebony 
avengers and their cimeters, mentioned by her 
eccentric guide, and the poor country soul shud- 
dered as she thought of the trouble and danger 
which might assail her. This part of her mis- 
sion was distasteful; still she would not care if 
Lena was but found, 

Standing thus, she reflected. Her instructions 
had directed her to pass by way of the kitchen 
door, opposite that through which she had come, 
to the hall, when she was to proceed by the stairs 
facing the entrance to the upper story, where the 
second front-room was occupied by her long- 
sought-for darling. All this was plain enough, 
yet the stealthy course necessary went against 
her scruples; such proceeding was contrary to 
the code of open honesty. Still, forher! It was 
for her! She closed the outer door softly, and 
so strong was the force of habit, even in the house 
of the stranger, locked it for security of the in- 
mates. She removed her boots, finding time while 
sitting to unlace them to admire the resplendent 
cleanliness of the kitchen utensils. Then she 
noiselessly opened the kitchen door and crossed 
the hall. Its dusky woods and crowd of curious 
objects did not stop her; she came from a grand- 
er mansion, one room of which would have stored 
all the quaint trifles of this cottage; moreover, 
by the pale dim light they were seen im their 
most weird aspect, when color and form alike 
were almost imperceptible. On the stairs were 
hung paintings ; these also seemed uncanny, clas- 
sical pieces, and Martha knew nothing of the clas- 
sical. A broad landing above, a long stretch of 
carpet of a dark shading, panelling of pine wood 
every where; two rows of doors, polished; and 
she stood before the second, facing the front of 
the house. She tried this gently and half rever- 
ently, feeling, however, surprised and sorry that 
it was not secured upon the inner side, thinking 
more for the moment of her young lady’s safety 
than of the immediate object in view ; she did not 
know that bolts and bars were foreign to the own- 
er’s theory. Thus the door opened easily, and 
she was at liberty to enter, and did so, taking the 
precaution to close it behind her. Instantly she 
was in another sphere, light, elegant, fair as are 
the chambers of the young in France, where 
wealth outvies itself upon chaste embellishment 
of the portals of sleep. She saw the child instant- 
ly, enshrined amidst muslin and lace, the dim light 
through pink curtains tinting the cheeks with a 
lovelier hue than Martha thought she had ever 
seen there; or it might have been the pretty 
flush from dreams, or the fancy after all that 
the darling was more beautiful in her eyes than 
of old. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


With great tenderness she awoke her, hushing 
the little startled cry with kisses. 

Raising herself upon the pillows, Lena put her 
arms about the woman’s neck. 

“Well, you are a dear darling old love of a 


Martha! ‘But tell me, how is papa? How did 
you find me? Is he here? Was he very, very 
angry? Is—” 

“Hush-sh! I want to get you away without 


any one knowing, in case it is prevented; you 
must dress, and wrap up well, and this time to- 
morrow you shall be in your own little bed at 
home.” 

_ “IT must not leave like that; I have been treat- 
ed so kindly, and I have a friend I don’t like 
parting from—the most beautiful boy you ever 
saw in all your life, and so gentle, more like a 
girl, Iam nothing to it.” 

Martha smiled, remembering various redoubt- 
able adventures of which this wild one had been the 
heroine. Embracing her once again, she pleaded 
that no time might be lost. Still Lena was very 
irresolute, and Martha, with low, earnest speech, 
besought the child, for Mr. St. Aubyn’s sake, to go 
with her, and at once. 

Unwillingly assenting, unable to resist that 
strongest of pleas, she slowly dressed herself, and 
stood ready to accompany her new-found pro- 
tector, whose ideas of right, and of the view Mr. 
St. Aubyn would entertain of it, all impelled her 
to hurry the child from the place as quickly as 
possible. 

They made good a retreat without alarming any 
one in the house, and hastened along the lane 
and out upon the main road, without speaking, 
and feeling very cold and miserable in the frosty 
morning air. 

‘We shall find snow when we reach Yorkshire, 
or Iam mistaken !” said Martha, with a weather- 
wise look at the sky. 

“ Never mind that so long as there is a warm 
welcome and papa’s forgiveness for my naughti- 
ness; but I can’t think how you found out where 
-Iwas. You’ve much to tell me.” 

‘“‘God, who directs the stars, Miss Lena, directed 
me.”’ . 


——— 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
REPULSED. 


Sr. AuByN could not have described to any hu- 
man being the sorrow at his heart. There is a 
deeper pain than language tells, a sadder grief 
than friendship fathoms, and even the kind old 
pastor knew nothing of that extremity of suffer- 
ing which the stricken man, like many another, 
kept veiled from all. In the lull between pain 
and pain, the pauses in the conflict of agony, the 
resting pillowed upon remembrance and hope, 
there visited him memory of old days of pain upon 
which this dreaded thing had loomed a shadow 
of what might by terrible misfortune befall him, 
when he had put it from him, hatefully. 
quired but little to thrill the old chords afresh 
and draw up from long years the wailing of dead 
pain, but little to trim the lamps in long ave- 
nues of gloomy thought, but little to strike the 
changes of forgotten sobs on heart-strings wet 
with tears. 

The melancholy hauteur of manner increased. 
He would live alone with his sorrow as he had 

Vou. u.—F 


4 


It re-, 


8h 


lived apart with his purpose. This he knew would 
have won no sympathy, so his trouble would pos- 
sess no interest. Hence the solicitous efforts of 
first one and then the other of his deferential 
lady comforters caused him some slight surprise. 
Sometimes in the great drawing-room his eyes 
would rest wonderingly upon the woman who had 
been the friend and companion, of her he had 
lost. It seemed strange, that immovable calm- 
ness in contrast with his tempest-shaken soul ; 
she might have presided over the dominion of Re- 
pose, and represented the eternal concentration of 
Calm, so undisturbed was her serenity. He could 
not understand it. Why, he was all jarred and 
unstrung, trembling and languid as one weaken- 
ed by severe illness! Then he would look long 
and yearningly at the other, the friend of the older 
years, who knew how he could love, knew how he — 
had suffered;.and there was only the long-re- 
membered captivating smile, the pleasing play of 
amiability, the inseparable grace and elegance. 
And one was as great a mystery as the other in 
presence of his great sorrow. Goethe, even at 
the height of popularity, and in the full blaze of 
hero-worship, claimed for his thought a selectness 
of aristocracy which utterly excluded the fa- 
miliar; so these feminine vulgarians, with their 
artifice and finesse, were, in spite of all the sub- 
tlety of overacted manceuvres, kept at immeas- 
urable distance by that sad yet gracious hauteur, 
in which from the commencement of this trouble 
he had more than ever infolded himself. Terri- 
bly alive and sensitive to every thing that re- 
minded him of her, he could not bear to hear the 
loved name mentioned ; and this new sorrow re- 
vived the older trouble, brought up from well-nigh 
forgotten dreams the slumbering pain that still 
thrilled. Of course these comforters must harp, 
one upon the past, the other on the present— 
wearily to him—almost beyond his patience. 

St. Aubyn’s reflection upon human nature was 
not of the most gentle order ; it was an increasing 
conviction that life is shockingly imperfect in its 
moral tendencies. Once the old pastor said to 
him— 

‘““Much may be gathered of that portion of hu- . 
manity even which has strayed; fair fruits of 
promise, and flowering gleams of goodness, bright- 
er than will be gleaned in long galleries of vir- 
tues, reaching down the lives like rent-rolls ; and 
these shreds of broken beauty, sorted and shaded, 
and pieced and blended, live with us long after 
the darker surroundings are dead.” 

But St. Aubyn would accept none of this rea- 
soning; if the moral was good, somebody else 
might benefit by it. There was a line laid down 
in his own mind whereby human nature should 
abide, and if good there was, it would preserve 
itself consistent with that line; he could not go 
hunting about in the dark after an accident to 
find it. 

Old Mr. Arden might argue, and did argue, that 
Lena could make many such explorations all un- 
influenced and uninjured; but his friend was a 
passionate lover, and jealous of his love. Once 
gone, gone altogether, was the brief basis of his 
principle. But ‘‘ Not so,” said the apostle of for- 
bearance, who, having outgrown love, could afford 
to extol forgiveness. ‘‘No heart so fond as the 
repentant.” 

There was a limbo for the repentant somewhere, ~ 
doubtless, but it should not be at the House upon 


82 


the Cliff. And over this matter the master rather 
inclined an ear to the subtle theory of the com- 
panion, who unceasingly, and with quiet delicacy, 
mourned for her poor darling exposed this long 
time to the allurements and poisonous temptations 
of the world. 

“Why, then, do you take such extraordinary 
pains to recover,her ?” asked the pastor, hanging 
upon this his hope of a warmly cordial and lov- 
ing welcome in the event of such recovery. It 
was taxing the misanthrope closely. 

“T can not bear to think of her adrift upon the 
world. I would provide for her as I have ever 
done; place her at school, or in kind keeping, 
where I shall know she is happy and content, 
because improving her acquaintance with the 
world and society, begun thus auspiciously.” 

Without regarding the irony, the pastor 
added— 

“In other words, you would retain possession, 


while debarring her from convincing you of her | 


innocence, her unchanged love, her tender child- 
hood? Very wrong, my friend.” 

“The ‘possession,’ as you prefer to put it, is 
mine to-day, another’s to-morrow, and for all I 
know, a change each day, so long as that ‘ inno- 
cent? and ‘unchanged love’ you speak of may 
be prettily assumed. Oh, sweet sex! sweet 
sex !” 

With a horrible moan, St. Aubyn covered his 
face with his hands. 

Mr. Arden was much shocked. He admitted 
that his friend was aggrieved, but this sweeping 
lament, so bitter and vindictive, pained the kind 
mediator exceedingly. 

“JT have confidence in Lena,” he said; “ allow 
her to come to the parsonage, until you are wiser, 
calmer, more just.” He added, sadly, and with 
much feeling: ‘‘ You will know where she is, can 
see her when you wish, receive her back when wel- 
come. I love the child as I might have loved a 
daughter of mine own.” 

The words set the sufferer quivering again; he 
was thinking of Willie. “No,” he said, with a 
shudder; “I thank you, my friend, but I think 
. the more remote the better.”. Then he felt angry 
with himself for the temporary weakness. But 
love does not die out so quickly; its tendrils are 
tenacious of their hold when strengthened by ten 
years’ growth. 

To the benignant pastor life was an open scroll, 
Truth its text, Trust its end, with compassion al- 
ways fast twined with forbearance, and Forgive- 
ness the fruit of our holiest endeavor. ‘“ Weare 
so erring ourselves,” he used to think, “‘so sinning, 
our whole time should be devoted to the forgiving 
of others.’”” When he would remark in this wise 
to St. Aubyn, the latter’s caustic rejoinder would 
stay prolongation of the argument. ‘“ Indiscrim- 
inate forgiveness,” St. Aubyn would remark, “ like 
indiscriminate love, is an infirmity ; certain wrongs 
are beyond all forgiveness.” 

“Foremost of which is the injury from deser- 
tion, eh ?” . 

“* Foremost.” 

Then the pastor would be silent, the mild, kind 
countenance becoming very thoughtful. Some- 
times the old man would remonstrate with his 
friend upon the futility of sitting down to brood 
over his grief, and would press the benefit of 
arousing and bestirring one’s self when over- 
weighted with trouble. He would murmur— 


. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


‘Weep if thou wilt, but weep not thou too long; 
Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. 
Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, 
A sunny joy will crown thy head with rays;” 


but his friend would smile sadly and incredulous- 
ly. ‘Have not I told you that I fled éven to the 
East when my last blow fell? But I found no 
freedom there. Work is a sovereign remedy, but 
forgetfulness alone brings permanent relief. I 
must bury myself in my books.” 

And he buried himself in his books. All the 
persevering by-play of his guest, or the thought- 
ful attention of Lena’s companion, could not woo 
him from those. But be sure he suffered all the 
more for it. He was generally alone in his pri- 
vate apartment, though sometimes in the evening 
he joined the ladies in the drawing-room. 

Mrs. Vincent’s stay was drawing to its close; 
she said she had but left home for a day or two. 
Her brief view of the position had impressed her 
with two convictions—first, that this Brandon, 
whom she had commenced by despising consid- 
erably, was an opponent more than worthy for 
her to enter the lists with; next, that Lord Lin- 
don had changed for the worse. A recluse life 
had wrought its usual evil effect; the man was 
impervious to blandishment. She had one con- 
solation, and rested upon it with content—the 
child had not been recovered, had not returned. 
As for Mrs. Brandon—‘ Well, if his lordship is 
fool enough,” thought the widow, who never 
minced matters when communing with herself, 
“so let him!” but she honestly would have given 
her rival very little for her chance. Neverthe- 
less, in this feline duel the black and white 
lady possessed an immense advantage; she was 
aware of it, and the consciousness fed her quiet 
decorum. 

It was a matter of never-ceasing self-congratu- 
lation with Mrs. Brandon also that the child had 
been heard of no more. “ Yes,” she thought, 
‘“‘Lena St. Aubyn is wiped off beautifully.” But 
there was the curious disappearance of Martha 
Saxe upon that same memorable day, and this 
perplexed and worried the black and white lady 
acutely. And sometimes she thought of the orig- 
inal of the portrait within her locket, and she 
would say to herself, ‘“‘ What’s he up to, I wonder ? 
Mischief, though, or he wouldn’t be so quiet.” 
Thus she grew painfully expectant and alert, and 
divided her time in attending to St. Aubyn and 
finessing with Mrs. Vincent. 

Five-o’clock tea was over, the ladies were at 
work, St. Aubyn’s hound was crouched before the 
fire, warm winter curtains were drawn close. It 
was a scene of peace and comfort strangely in 
contrast with the howling winds without, tumult- 
uously besetting the craggy steep as though they 
would hurl the towering cliff into the depth of 
seething waters, 

Mrs. Vincent gave a little shuddering glance 
over at the rattling casement. 

‘“‘ What a horrible place this must be in winter! 
I would as soon live in a light-house !””. 

“We didn’t notice it when all together, united 
and happy; the elements had no power to dismay 
or affright us. There is so much, dear, in being 
supported by loving companionship.” 

And the women smiled sweetly upon one an- 
other, while clutching at their work with a motion 
suggestive of sharpening the claws. Their talk was 
carried on in a low tone, for the master, as usual, 


; b: ee: 


. 


a 
a 


a eee ts 


A MODERN MINISTER. 83 


was reading; but he heard, as it was intended 
he should, and his brows contracted, his teeth 
met, and the breathing became a process of dif- 
ficulty. 

“ A terrible evening to be out-of-doors! I trust 
all in whom we are interested are as safely housed 
and luxuriously comfortable as ourselves.” 

“You are thinking of—” 

‘‘Of my son, now staying in town, pursuing his 
studies.” , 

The other purred, playfully patted a ball of 
wool, looked green and grim and ghastly out from 
the watchful eyes, and asked— 

“Do you mind holding this skein while I un- 
wind, dear? I am so close upon an entangle- 
ment.” ¢ 

“Not at all; so pleased, dear! Charming col- 
or! You are partial to yellow ?” 

The other bit her lip and unwound a little quick- 
er, variegated wools, a warm-colored hank stand- 
ing out upon the black and white, until from the 
other end of the room she must have shown tor- 
toise-shell. 

They had both been thinking of the child, and 
would both have rejoiced at her downfall from 
the cliff. 

How intently he seemed absorbed in his book, 
never lifting his face from the page, its handsome 
perfection seemed marred by the firm-set purpose 
and legible pain! He too could be cruel; ay, 
cruel; he felt the steel within his very soul. The 
finer inner life, that mystery and majesty of the 
human race, with longing desire for more perfect 
peace, and endless yearning for the higher, was 
beautiful as, when a boy, he sat lonely beneath 
the oaks of Lindon, and gave himself to reverie, 
and created an ideal never to be found, it seemed, 
this side the grave. When he had settled in this 
house it was to rest upon rock, and to abandon 
the pursuit of shadows; and here he had been 
nurturing a dreamy, dangerous ideality, having 
no substantial essence, baneful'as a narcotic, with 
a great awakening pain. And was he not wise 
enough to know that the intangible, the mystical, 
dreams which the soul of the sensitively cultured 
embraces so readily, are but ignes fatua by the 
higher discipline of the teaching compressed witb- 
in these shattering disappointments? Be that 
as it may, he was morbidly changed, morose, cyn- 
ical, doubting. What will release him from this 
lethargy of pain, this torpor of overwhelmed en- 
durance? What will arouse the spirit burdened 
down by all this trouble ? 

Suddenly a ringing of the bell of the great 
court-yard gate caused the inmates of the apart- 
ment to start and look at one another. 

With perfect self-possession, Mrs. Brandon, 
sweetly asking her fair assistant to hold the wool 
a few minutes, arose and left them. There was 
an embarrassing silence, an interval of painful 
suspense. 

Once having quitted the drawing-room, Mrs. 
Brandon drew herself erect, and swiftly crossed 
the hall. She overtook a servant leisurely upon 
the way to discover the cause of the summons. 

“JT will go. It is a poor woman selling lace, 
T believe.” 

The servant was glad to return to the great fire 
in their own room, and gave place to the lady. 

She crossed the court-yard, tying a pocket- 
handkerchief round her head, and it framed in a 


“face more than usually ghastly. 


It was gusty and blustering, and a few flakes 
of snow whitened the flags and upper ledges of 
the gate. There were crevices through which she 
could reconnoitre, and she did so. Blown upon, 
gray, stone-like, yet splendid, so fair was the face 
with the light of its honesty, Martha Saxe stood 
waiting admission. No other figure was to be 
seen, only that resolute, enduring woman. But 
Hortense Brandon was not going to allow her to 
enter there if she could prevent it, even though 
the nearest house was miles off, and the desolate, 
wintry way was unutterably dreary. With a de- 
termination the observer would not have given 
this quiet woman the credit of possessing, she un- 
twisted at a junction the wire of the bell, and left 
it hanging as though broken by the force with 
which it had been pulled from without. Mrs. 
Brandon was not scrupulous when at extremes. 

She returned noiselessly to the drawing-room 
and to her chair, winding on, with the remark to 
her lady friend holding the wool with particular 
care— 

“Some tramp; it is dangerous permitting the 
servants to open the gate after dusk.” 

The hound stretched itself, turned round, and 
crouched before the fire, moved uneasily, then 
trotted over to its master, laying its head upon 
his knee, and looking in his face. 

Wearily the student looked down in the large 
expressive eyes; their strange wistfulness struck 
him; it was almost a human expression. He 
shivered slightly; he was not superstitious, but— 
his darling had loved the dog; a love returned. 

“Come, Ponto !” called Mrs. Brandon. ‘ Good 
dog! Does he trouble you, Sir?” 

“No, thanks; nevermind. Is it snowing, Mrs. 
Brandon, or what sort of a night is it?” 

“ Bitterly cold, Sir; it has commenced to snow.” 

And he was cold as though out in it. She had 
been wont to love watching for the first to fall 
upon their garden. 

He strode moodily from the room, to that 
chamber so pleasant in summer, which had deep 
glass doors opening to the garden. He seldom 
came here now, it was so redolent of memories of 
her. 

Locking the door by which he entered, he, 
scarcely thinking of his actions, sat down in the 
accustomed chair, for the first time since her going, 
and watched the falling snow. 

He had no lamp, and preferred the dim, hazy 
glimmer of the starlight through the snow. What 
though this room was shadowy? So were his 
hopes; so was his life! 

With a throbbing brow and quick-beating pulse 
he saw the garden paths and lawn growing white 
beneath the still descent.. He could scarcely 
breathe—the room had been closed for some days 
—and he crossed to the window and opened it ; the 
cool air revived him, and he returned to his seat. 

It was a dreamy, soothing process, watching the 
fall of the snow, and he began fancying all sorts 
of things, even that Lena flitted past the end of 
the path nearest the wall; and he smiled bitterly 
while chiding this fancy, foolish and insensate, for 
ever dwelling upon her. Yet the figure had ap- 
peared real enough, so distempered was his im- 
agination. ed 

Stay! There it was again; closer; by the win- 
dow; a hand on it; and the man scarcely moved, 
so transfixed and enchained was he by this sud- 
den appearance. 


* 


84. 


And she entered, seeing him instantly in the 
old place, and thought him sleeping. 

She knelt by him,. winding her arms about him, 
and tremulous with joy at finding him alone, 
happy now she was once more at home again. 

She kissed him with marvellous warmth, and it 
burned him, writhing under her caresses; for, with 
instant agony of the jealous, he pictured the 
lessons she had received in the art, the experience 
she had acquired in the days of her absence. And 
she was dismayed to find herself put from him, 
while with chilling sternness he reproved the 
endearment. 

“No, Lena! Save such demonstration of af- 
fection for the friends you have left, to return to 
your quiet, dull home.” 

At that, kneeling before him, her eyes filled 
with tears, and words cadenced with sorrow, she 
implored his forgiveness. 

“My poor girl!’’ said he, with some show of ten- 
derness, “‘you have but proved your claim to be 
ranked with your loyal sex. Why should I have 
supposed it possible for you to be different, 
whatever the measure of precaution taken? How- 
ever, I am pleased to see you well, and back 
again; the majority would not have returned at 
all.” 

He was speaking collectedly, albeit very strange- 
ly: the tone seemed to freeze her. Longing for 
some extension of forgiveness and affection, she 
clasped her hands upon 1 his knees, bowing her face, 
tears fast falling, sobs racking "the slicht form, 
and almost killing the inexorable one to whom 
she appealed. 

“Come, come, do not cry like this ; 
the story of your adventures. Whom—whom 
you have seen? Where you have been? How 
used, and why returned ?” 

And the sobbing explanation came, he never 
moving; thanks to the dim light, she did not see 
his face : 

. “ After you had left, Mrs. Brandon assisted me 
to go, and I rode in a wagon until I came to a 
railway station, and from there took the train to 
London ; every one was very kind to me.» It was 
-in the evening when I reached fcndott and I 
walked about until I was in a street called Regent 
Street, where I stood watching the lords and the 
ladies, and then went on to a square, and was 
standing by the gates of a palace, watching the 
nobility enter, when I addressed a gentleman hur- 
tying by, asking him if I could anyhow see the 
lords and ladies, and he said, ‘ Certainly, at his 
house; many were coming!’ And he took me 
there; but I did not stay very long, and he went 
with me to a French hotel and hired an apartment 
for my use that night, and, leaving me, returned 
home. I could not stop there for the noise, but 
walked out, and was out all night, passing the 
time in Covent Garden. It was all new and 
strange, and I would not have cared if you had 
been with me, dear. But you were not; 
made the best of it. I became very weary, long- 
ing to be at home. In the morning some man 
procured me a cab, and I was driven through Lon- 
don on the road for home, intending to walk until 
coming to a small station, for I was afraid of the 
large ones in London. I was very hungry, and 
seeing a beautiful boy standing by a gate, I was 
going to ask him if he could tell me where I could 
get some luncheon, when he invited me into a 
cottage near by, where a friend of his, named 


let me hear 


still, I | 


A MODERN MINISTER, 
i Lord Ellerby, received me very kindly; and there 


I staid until last night, when I was frightened 
by a woman entering my bedroom and throwing 
her arms about me while she kissed me nearly to 
death. It was dear old Martha Saxe, who had 
been searching for me ever since the day I went, 
and had found me at last, and it is she who has 
brought me back. But the bell broke; we could 
make no one hear, and I finished by clambering 
over the wall.” 

She ceased; there was oppressive stillness. 
The narration had been as bad and worse than 
in his most disturbing moods he had dared to 
imagine: her simplicity and innocence heighten- 
ed this very effect. He was paralyzed for a time, 
could literally pass no remark ; but he drew him. 
self away from her, and that was answer enough. 
Then she sank to the ground, still crying. 

“Where is Martha Saxe?” he inquired, in a 
coldly abrupt tone. 

‘Outside the gate still, and she said she would 
rather wait there till morning than get over the 
wall, knowing your objection to that method of 
entrance.” 

He shuddered, remembering the day of the 
man Beech’s appearance. 

Then, raising her, he placed the trembling cul- 
prit before him, between the chair of justice and 
the wintry scene without, so typical now of his 
life. He spoke’ hoarsely, and with such pain it 
thrilled even her. 

“You have made your choice, Lena, and will 
abide by it. You are welcome to occupy to- 
night the chamber long looked upon as yours; 
in the morning I must make some other arrange- 
ment. With all my love, which passes telling by 
words, I can not receive you back again; it would 
be constant pain to me, and I can not live in 


such continuous martyrdom. You have not known | 


how I have'loved you; but be this its proof, that, 
loving you still unutterably, I can thus put you 
from me.” 

She had anticipated indignation, reproacheg, 
perhaps anger of a majestic kind that pardens 
while it reproves, but was unprepared for this 
torrent of chilling, sorrowing, immutable dis. 
pleasure. She had been in thé wrong, had been 
very naughty, had wounded him with thought- 
less impulsiveness, and she repented sorely, but 
she could nohow see why, if he loved her, he 
should not forgive; particularly after she had 
told him all the truth, keeping nothing back, 
kneeling at his feet imploring forgiveness, and 
weeping as she had never wept before. Her 
spirit began to rise. By her creed Love forgives 


any thing. It was natural she would not take: 


his view of the situation. 

So she stood with fingers interlaced, waiting ; 
he was looking out upon the garden. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “you would rather go to 
your room unobserved by the servants. In the 
morning please come down as usual, and as 
though nothing had happened. I will acquaint 
you with my wishes in the course of the day. 
Good-night.” * 

She was glad of permission to retire, and 
moved a step toward the door; but then, acting 
upon an impulse she could not restrain, she re- 
turned to him, stood by his side, and— 

“Kiss me, dear! One! Ive not forgotten you 
for a minute, and. would have come back the very 
next day could I have done so. Not one kiss? 


es 


Jace. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 85 


You are not the same; it is no longer like home.” 
And with a little moan she fell back, for he was 
unyielding as a figure of iron. She felt it bitter- 
ly, and resented it; there seemed so harsh a rigor 
about this treatment of her, accustomed to the 


’ homage princesses claim. 


She went from the room, and he, the instant 
she was gone, relaxed, and fell upon the couch 
in a brief interval of such keen agony that con- 
sciousness itself well-nigh departed. He had 
acted as he had determined, but what an awful 
struggle it was, with the great hunger to take 
her to his heart! Oh, he could be cruel! He 
had been cruel! She thought him cruel, and it 
added to his agony. Done in that chamber, 
sacred by its love and tenderness, old acts of 
solicitous holy care making it a retreat angels 
might have winged their bright presence unto. 
All the lovely associations seemed to rise against 
the profanation and add to the burden of his woe. 


ee rene 


CHAPTER XIX. 
VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD. 


CroucHine by her master’s gateway, with the 
stubborn, immovable faithfulness which charac- 
terized her, Martha Saxe had apparently taken up 
her quarters for the night. Wind might blow 
and snow might fall, but her back was against 
the door of home, and the child was safely housed. 
She could die upon the strength of that. 

The snow fell thick, and she watched it accu- 
mulating upon the trees, covering them as with 
Her old friends, the stars, were not visible ; 
and she felt a strange peacefulness at having ac- 
complished her purpose, and at being once more 
at home. It never struck her as thoughtless that 
Lena did not rush to the gate and admit her; she 
was simply and entirely content—and there is no 
bettering that. 

But presently she heard the master’s step ; how 
well she knew it! He was coming with his own 
hand to admit her, perhaps out of gratitude; and 
pleasant anticipation kindled new warmth within 
her heart as she sprang to her feet. 

But with what strange words, and in how cold 
a tone he spoke! So unlike him! “ Master is 
not well,” she thought to herself; “he has been 
fretting for her.” 

“Ts Martha Saxe there, and alone?” 

“Yes, Mr. St. Aubyn, and alone, Sir.” 

The gate was opened, and master and servant 
stood face to face beneath the snowy portals. She 
thought he looked dreadfully ill, yet more digni- 
fied. He bowed kindly, and thanked her sincere- 
ly for the service she had rendered. Heasked her 
to follow him to his study, and she did so, tremu- 
lous now that it was all over. Sitting at his ta- 
ble, while unlocking a small drawer, he thus spoke: 

“The service you have rendered me, Mrs. Saxe, 


is one that no money and no words ever can re- 


pay ; but [had previously offered a reward of a thou- 


- sand pounds to whoever brought back to my guard- 


ianship your young mistress, and this I have 
pleasure in now handing to you. It is poor ac- 
knowledgment for your devotion ; but any request 
you may ask of me now or at a future time shall 
be granted, no matter what its nature or extent. 


Until then hold me your debtor and most grate- 


ful friend. Thanks; that will do.” 


She was so overcome by his generosity and gra- 
cious conduct that she scareely knew what course 
to take, but with a deep courtesy, uttering her 
broken thanks, she retired. 

Then he rang for his servant. 

“Send Mrs. Brandon to me.” 

The lady entered quietly, and walked to the 
study table, appearing as unmoved as usual. 

“You sent for me, Sir ?” 

“To say I shall not require your services after 
this evening: suit your own convenience in ar- 
ranging the hour to-morrow for your departure. 
This note will settle the little account between us.” 

Elbow upon table, hand to his brow, the instant 
he had spoken he apparently resumed his reading, 
upon which he seemed engaged when she entered. 

‘This isa singular proceeding, Mr. St. Aubyn !” 
carefully placing the bank-note in her purse. “I 
hope every one may prove as faithful to you as | 
have been.” It stung him, but he betrayed no 
impression, and she retired as quietly as she had 
entered. 

‘“‘Bowled out after all!” said the lady elegant- 
ly to herself, returning to the drawing-room. The 
study bell was again heard, and almost immedi- 
ately the servant appeared to say that Mr. St. Au- 
byn wished to speak with Mrs. Vincent in the 
study. , 

‘“‘What’s the matter, I wonder ?” murmured the 
widow to herself, as she dartéd a quick and search- 
ing glance at the not particularly pleasant face of 
her dear friend Mrs. Brandon. 

Mr. St. Aubyn was still reading; he looked up 
wearily; she saw he was suffering acutely. 

“Take a chair a moment or two, Anna. I will 
not detain you long, for I am not well to-night.” 

She did so, taking care gracefully to arrange 
the folds of her dress while sitting down. He did 
not speak for a minute or two, and she gave a 
little pull at the black velvet bow upon her wrist, 
which was limp at the loop. He fidgeted with the 
leaf of the book and was restless: she softly 
smoothed her hair above the brow. One of his 
feet darted out under the table as impelled by a 
twinge of pain he could not control; she carefully, 
lightly —a mere butterfly pass—wiped the corner of 
her mouth with the corner of her pocket-handker- 
chief, leaving the antipodal angle with Anna in 
faney embroidery and a mock crest full in his 
view, if he happened to look her way after one 
of his spasmodic movements. She wondered what 
was coming; it might be something worth wait- 
ing for. ° 

“Lena has returned.” 

She opened her eyes at that. 
you of much anxiety.” 

“Yes. Iwas very anxious. Iam now ponder- 
ing upon where to place her; I am not fond of 
schools.” 

She caught at her opportunity in an instant. 
“No, you would not be. The child needs a quiet, 
kind home, presided over by a motherly yet ac- 
complished woman, who, although guardian and 
companion, would likewise be an instructor.” 

“ Exactly; just what I was thinking, my friend. 
The difficulty is to find such a home.” 

“Would you feel disposed to intrust me with 
the care of your protégée? I shall be happy to 
oblige you in any way, and it will be society for 
myself now that my son is studying in London. 
We are very quiet—only myself and the maid, 
and no visitors.” 


“Tt will relieve 


86 ‘ 


“ Really, I do not know how to thank you 
enough; you have taken a great burden of em- 
barrassment from my mind. You will not feel 
hurt if I ask you to curtail your stay here? I do 
not wish Lena to resume her old occupations 
about the place; I could not, perhaps, part with 
her!” with a terrible sigh. ‘Some time to-mor- 
row—early to-morrow—early as convenient to 
you—” 

“ Certainly, with pleasure ; my time has almost 
expired, it will but make a difference of a few 
hours, and this is nothing to the pleasure of serv- 
ing you. One of the maids shall assist me to pack 
this very night, and your man can go over early 
and order a conveyance to be at the foot of the 
Cliff, so that we might, if you are agreeable, start 
directly after breakfast.” 

“You are very good; I will not forget this kind 
sympathy.” 

“T don’t think you will,” said the lady to her- 
self; then aloud, with her sweetest smile— 

“You know it has always given me happiness 
to serve you. But I will not speak of this ; you 
‘have met with so much that is false in life, I can 
well understand how instantly the heart recog- 
nizes the truthful.” 

“Alas! it has been on all sides of me of late 
years. I think, Anna, when a man loses his 
mother, from that time devotion, truth, and loyalty 
have perished in this’ world for him.” 

“And yet how different should be your con- 
viction! One genuine woman of all the world, a 
tender helpmeet, a refined and cultured lady, your 
equal in thought, your loving disciple in taste, the 
delicate ministrant to your sympathies, how would 
one such reverse your judgment upon her sex! 
Good-night, good-night.” 


a eRe 


CHAPTER XX. 


“TOWARD RESTORING THE CHURCH.” 


Pisgan TABERNACLE was a plain, white-fronted 
edifice, the face of which sadly wanted washing. 
Within, although resembling a sepulchre, it could 
not by any stretch of the imagination be likened 
to a “whited” one. The tabernacle wanted do- 
ing up. Mr. Jones had no objection to. its being 
done up, if the people would pay for it. But the 
people were poor, the Rev. Jacob Jones was poor, 
and the tabernacle remained unclean. It was sit- 
uated in a by-street, in an unfashienable quarter, 
with a net-work of impoverished labor surround- 
ing it, and an attractive church—Ritualistic— 
close by, so that altogether the tabernacle had a 
bad time of it. 

Then the brilliant idea of having an additional 
collecting box just inside the door was started 
by a deacon.of wondrous originality. At that 
time the three boxes were inscribed, CHURCH EX- 
PENSES: WEEKLY OFFERING: and ORGAN FUND. A 
new box was procured. ' It became necessary to 
paint the object thereon, and Mr. Wriggle, the 
deacon, had selected DONATIONS TOWARD THE 
CLEANSING as an appropriate inscription. This 
was overruled by the Rev. Mr. Jones, who wisely 
thought the people would get outside before they 
had time to read the string of titles, and decide 
which to support. It was therefore abandoned, 
and this expressive appeal substituted: TowaARD 
RESTORING THE BUILDING. 


A MODERN MINISTER. , 


Six months passed, during which Pisgah Taber- 
nacle became several degrees dirtier. Then it 
was proposed that the “ Restoration Box” should 
be opened, and seven farthings were disinterred. 
It was very evident the Pisgah congregation 


could not support every thing. Mr. Jones was — 
not, however, a gentleman to be discouraged; 


he had been used to this sort of thing all his life, 
He had doubled the members of his church, and 
that was of infinitely more importance than clean- 


ing down the building. Still the pastor thought 


a little spurring would not be amiss, and wrote 
to ask the new clergyman recently settled at the 
large church on the hill if he would kindly preach 
for him one Sunday at his convenience. Dr. Crick- 
et was willing enough to help a struggling broth- 
er, but, as a point of etiquette, handed the letter 
to his deacons, before writing a courteous assent. 
These enlightened gentlemen, however, were of 
opinion it would not do at all. It'was highly 
necessary the doctor should preserve position. 
The announcement of his going to preach in Mr. 
Jones’s poky little place would excite much at- 
tention, would cause great talk, and the rest. 
Nevertheless, Dr. Cricket wrote his brother a very 
polite note, wishing him prosperity in his min- 
istry, and invoking a blessing upon his work. 
This was cheap. Mr. Jones felt it, but inas- 
much as a public man may not show all he feels, 
he placed the letter aside, to forget it as quickly 
as possible, but with an inward determination 
that the Cricket should never at any future time 
be heard upon his hearth. 

Mr. Jones knew equally with his secular friends 
that every man has to hold a candle to the devil. 
Mr. Jones knew that the lesser preacher has to 
hold the candle to a good many. If this knowl- 
edge was distasteful to the reverend gentleman, 
he yet performed the ceremony perseveringly, 
and with conscientious regard for the welfare of 
his church. . 

Many rebuffs did the pastor meet with, and of 
a more unpleasant nature than that at the hands 
of Dr. Cricket; but he toiled on with honest and 
pious industry, thinking now and then that the 
more prosperous ones of his sect might help; but 
not repining overmuch, for his little church was 
filled, although with those who did not give. 

One Sunday after service Miss Kitty Tickle- 
wich, tripping from the organ gallery, saw the 
pastor walking down the centre aisle. “Just 
catch him,” said Miss Kitty, with her juyenile 
and artless playfulness; and so she did, at the 
foot of the gallery stairs. He looked pale from 
the fatigue of conducting the long service. He 
shrank a little at sight of the rippling member 
of his choir. He tried to shirk it, but it was no 
use; he knew that the sirens who sought to undo 
St. Anthony had been at it ever since. He would 
have made good a retreat, but there was no out- 
let, so he looked kindly upon the maiden, extend- 
ing his hand, 

“How do you do, Miss Ticklewich? Quite 
well, I hope ?” 

“La, Mr. Jones, you know I’m never ailing!” 
He did, to his cost. 

“This is a glorious morning. Fine weather 
makes all the difference in our attendance.” 

“What a beautiful sermon you gave us this 
morning, Sir! Do you know” (with her most 
guileless cast below the sand-colored hair), “it 


has made me resolve to be so good!” She was 


‘_ 
% 


A MODERN 


looking out of the corners of her eyes, tips of 
her fingers meeting pleadingly over the hymn- 
book she was bearing homeward. 

“T am very pleased, I’m sure, if any poor 
words of mine—” 

“Not poor, Mr. Jones, dear Mr. Jones; I must 
say so, for having brought me to this way of 
thinking. Ah!” (with a heavy sigh) “what a 
life is yours, so lofty, so full of single devoted- 
ness!” The pastor recoiled a step. 


i p, 

} \ eZ 

AN, 2 
aid 


Rr ew 


MINISTER. 87 


see the house of prayer month after month want- 
ing a few repairs which a dozen with their 
shoulders to the wheel would soon see executed.” 

‘““Why don’t you ask the famous preacher to 
help you ?” 

‘“T wrote to the doctor quite recently; but his 
engagements, he was sorry to say, prevented his 
acceding to my request.” 

‘Bother the doctor!” cried Kitty Ticklewich, 


| wickedly; “I mean Mr, Garland.” 


“THE MINISTER HEARD HER ARTLESS TALE THROUGH WITH KIND ATTENTION,” 


“T do my best, Miss Ticklewich, no more, 
with the strength given me. My scope, as you 
know, is narrow; I often feel I want breathing 
room. Our chapel is sorely dilapidated. I had 
hoped before this to have set about its restora- 
tion, but friends seem backward, co-operators 
half-hearted, and thus the project lingers. How- 
ever, it’s no use looking upon the dark side. 
The old place having stood all these years will 
stand a long time yet, but it grieves a pastor to 


The pastor of Pisgah Tabernacle appeared 
properly shocked. 

“Do you know what you are saying, Miss 
Ticklewich? Are you aware of the bitter scorn 
with which one in my position is looked upon by 
the Church of England? How much more would 
this be the case with this idol of fashion, having 
one of the largest congregations in the king- 
dom ?” 


“Rubbish! You entertain wrong notions of 


88 


him. Go and call upon him, and he will assist 
us.” 

“No, Miss Ticklewich; principle forbids. I 
should not think it right.” 

“Well, shall I call for you, and tell him the 
truth ?” 

“T should say not. 
control your actions.” 

“Tam very silly sometimes,” said Miss Kitty, 
simply, ‘‘and they do indeed need controlling.” 
The pastor thought so. 

They parted, the old chapel-keeper wanting to 
lock the doors, and Mr. Jones objecting to talk 
in the street. 

On the following day Miss Ticklewich called 
at Mr. Garland’s, and was admitted to his pres- 
ence without any ceremony. 

The Minister heard her artless tale through 
with kind attention. 

“Now,” concluded Miss Ticklewich, with de- 
lightful candor, “it is, I know, an unusual thing 
for a clergyman of. the Established Church to be 
appealed to for sympathy with a Nonconformist 
preacher, but I believe you are broadly charita- 
ble, and not biassed by sect. Our own people 
can not help, our denominational friends will 
not, the general public stand aloof, indifferent, 
and so we may go on to the day of doom. Our 
pastor has been to the people who subscribe to 
this, that, and the other, and got nothing out of 
them, owing, I suppose, to its being a chapel in 
an out-of-the-way district, and there being no 
subscription list. He has written to people of 
position, to tradesmen of wealth, and to those at 
a distance; a beggarly thirty shillings being the 
result. This wears down a man and sickens 
him. We can’t get up a bazar, because our peo- 
ple haven’t time to make things, and haven’t 
money to buy materials. Mr. Jones wrote to 
some ladies, and they would have felt ‘charmed 
to comply with his request, but’—mark the ‘but,’ 
Mr. Garland, please—‘ they were occupied upon 
preparing for the large bazar at the Dome in No- 
vember.’ Thus, up in the corner, as you may 
say, the idea occurred to me that you might as- 
sist us, and I mentioned this to Mr. Jones, who 
seemed outraged by the bare notion. Now I 
don’t see things in that light; beggars mustn't 
be choosers, and poor pride is ignorance. So I 
determined to call upon you myself, and, beg- 
ging your pardon for the liberty, I hope you’re 
not offended. It’s no distant missions nor trump- 
ed-up charity ’m pleading for, but a place of 
worship under one’s very nose, and in the very 
centre of a necessitous neighborhood.” 

Miss Ticklewich did plead in her most sweetly 
persuasive manner. Whatever he might have 
thought, the Minister displayed no annoyance at 
the lady’s audacious and vulgar, yet good-natured, 
efforts in behalf of her struggling little church. 

“And what is the large sum necessary, Miss 
Ticklewich, for the restoration ?” 

“We think thirty-five pounds would do it thor- 
oughly, Sir,” replied the lady, quivering with de- 
light, for by the kind expression she believed her 
errand was about to prove a successful one. But 
Mr. Garland, who thought as much of his poorer 
brother’s feelings as of his own, would not wound 
that other’s sensitiveness in this way. 

“And very sincerely do I trust you may be 
saved from the disappointment of feeling the 
amount can not be raised. 


But I can not, of course, 


I am sure you will. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


excuse me, knowing the many calls upon my purse, 
if I do not express: my sympathy in a more prac- 
tical and immediate manner.” 

. Miss Ticklewich rose. 

“Do 1 understand you are not going to do any 
thing forus? Well, I should never have believed 
it of you, Sir!” 

The Minister smiled with great kindness. ‘I’ 
am sorry to dispel any roseate illusion you had 
formed concerning my power and inclination to 
help others, Miss Ticklewich.” 

“Put not your faith in princes!’ murmured 
the lady, with plaintive sweetness. ‘Man! man! 
Alas! all flesh is grass!” and with inexpressible 
sadness Miss Ticklewich departed. Her idol was 
lowered from its pedestal, was mere breakable 
clay after all, was cracking fast. And the in- 
censed spinster trotted over to her friend Miss 
Caddie to have a fling at it, and hear the news 
while lunching. 

After she had gone, the Minister, with exqui- 
site forethought, sent on a sealed, unaddressed en- 


velope to his housekeeper in town, with it a slip © 


requesting her to address it according to the di- 
rection given therewith, and post it in London. 
The envelope contained a bank-note for fifty 
pounds, inclosed in a sheet of letter-paper with 
this explanation: ‘ Toward restoring Mr. Jones's 
church, witha friend's kind wishes for his extended 
success in the ministry.” 


————————— 


CHAPTER XXI. 
SIR HORACE’S SECRET IS DISCOVERED. 


Tue honored aunts of Sir Horace Vivian set 
their adventurous minds upon riding in the Park. 
It was the morning following that day the inci- 
dents of which have been described. It was upon 
thirteen well-trained steeds the goddesses elected 
to make their advent at the fashionable meet. 

Sir Horace attempted faint dissuasion, which 
was emphatically overruled. 

““ We know you are not fond of horseback, Hor- 
ace, but for once you must surrender to our pleas- 
ure. Other girls ride, why not we? I beg to tell 
you, when your aunts were young—er—hem— 
younger, they rode like—like—” 

‘“‘Centauresses !”’ supeested Sir Horace; which 
greatly pained his relatives, 

‘““No, nephew; like those aerial spirits who 
guided the chariot of the sun. We have not for- 
gotten, I hope, our skillful management of the 
beautiful equine animal.” 

It resulted in Sir Horace going to the livery- 
stables, and there arranging for the morning’s use 
of the fourteen most tractable animals the stables 
could supply. 

These formed a truly imposing procession, to 
the great delight of the urchins, who followed as 
perseveringly as when some circus parades the 
principal streets of a town. 

An oak settee from the hall served for a 
stepping-stone. Aunt Penelope was the first to 
mount, and had only just acquainted her nephew 
that she felt like Queen Elizabeth, when she cap- 
sized, and had it not been for her clinging to the 
neck of her steed, she must have fallen to the 
ground. The little boys set up a shout, which 
the aunts instantly suppressed by turning the full 
force of their Medusa glare upon the offenders. _ 


- Brigade. 


- like the figure-head of a ship! 
‘exalted in station, I'll be bound. Save us from 


Ld 
A MODERN MINISTER. 89 


The graceful cavalcade was quickly formed. in 
line, a crowd of domestics’ caps appearing at the 
windows of three sides of the square. 

They were just ready for the start, and their 
steeds were champing and rearing with impa- 
tience, when Aunt Dido remembered that riding 
always made her feel faint, and a basket of sand- 
wiches, a seed-cake, and a bottle of home-made 
wine and water had to be fixed upon the saddle of 
the obliging Sir Horace, who tenderly hoped that 
this expedition would effectually deliver an over- 
ridden world of his aunts. . 

Then they set forth, some rude juvenile of ad- 
vanced knowledge shouting something about Tam 
‘O’Shanter’s witches. 

We have all heard of the charge of the Light 
The poor steeds therein have passed 
into the hackney epoch, but the descent of Sir 
Horace’s party at the crossing forcibly reminded 
him of the well-known action, for his aunts rode 
over every thing, not from a Hun-like spirit so 
‘much as because they could not help it. 

“Now, gawky!” called out a desperate-looking 
female whom Aunt Minerva had almost ridden 
down, “look where yow’re a-driving to!” 

“Oh, my !”’ screamed another, “ that’s a riding- 
school !” 

It was very unpleasant that the public would 
criticise, but there was nothing to do but submit, 
and press on for the Park, where ladies upon 
horses were not objects of unusual comment. 
They pressed on. 

Rotten Row being reached, Sir Horace trusted 
all annoyance would be at an end; but they had 
not been there five minutes before he saw the 
most studiously fastidious of his friends advan- 
cing, accompanied by a lady, voung and graceful, 
‘whom Sir Horace knew to be his recently wedded 
wife, to whom he had not yet been introduced. 
It was embarrassing to a degree. What would 
the attendant sirens be taken for? There was 
no avoiding them, and Sir Horace tried to wear a 
‘smile of bonhomie. He saw the lady draw atten- 
tion to their approach, and immediately afterward 
look another way. He saw his friend adjust an 
eyeglass, then drop it pityingly and coolly, as usu- 
al, perhaps a little more so. Another instant and 
they were up with them. It was imperative to 
speak—must speak to one another; but Sir Hor- 
ace had no conception what to say, or how to get 
out of it. His friend spoke first. — 

“ Fine morning—hope you are quite well? Dev- 
il of a lot of fine women with you!” and rode on, 
with an august inclination, his companion looking 
another way during the interchange of civilities. 

They had passed on, Sir Horace biting his lip 
with mortification. ‘‘ What fellow,” he said to 


himself, “could wave his hand over a flock like 


mine and say, ‘My aunts!’ I verily believe her 
ladyship suspected Bohemia, and that I was air- 
ing one of the music halls in the absence of my 
fainily.” 

“ Don’t you trouble, Horace !”’ cried Miss Penel- 
ope, observing their knight looked vexed. “We 
didn’t want to be introduced. Your fine connec- 
tions are not among our wants, but we do like 
things right and straightforward in the house. 
As for that woman’s nose, it’s a pity she didn’t 
hold it a little higher, looking as if all the Park 
belonged to her, steering along for all the world 
Some lady’s-maid 


want o’ charity, but any body could see what she 
was. Now, girls—” 

Highly indignant, Miss Penelope spurred for- 
ward, closely followed by the battalion. 

There seemed an unusual number of nice peo- 
ple about that day, and Sir Horace and party 
were honored with no small share of attention. 
His friends looked coldly upon the cavalcade, as 
though upon a procession of nightmares. 

They returned home, the ladies very fatigued, 
and Miss Dido exceedingly faint. 

The servants arrived later, when an immediate 
diversion ensued, Miss Penelope considering it her 
emphatic duty to cross-question them upon where 
they had been, and whom they had been with. 
Then she came in to Sir Horace. 

‘““ Don’t you trouble, nephew; but with such a 
lot of servants as you have about you, the place 
is going to rack and ruin as fast as ever it can. 
I never came near such an impertinent set—never ! 
But I hope to work a radical change, if only for 
our poor dear Marion’s sake, whom we hope soon 
to have with us now. As a beginning, I’ve told 
one of the maids to pile all the table linen on the 
dresser, just to see what you have and what you 
have not, for I declare you don’t know: the tray 
cloths and table napkins kicking about that kitch- 
en would make a saint weep. It is well we came 
as we did, for upon my word there is no manage- 
ment !”’ 

“Tt seems you quite ignore my eldest daugh- 
ter’s position in the house, as well as that of the 
lady whom I have engaged for the express pur- 
pose.” 

“Yes, we'll soon settle her! We've heard 
quite enough about this precious companion— 
companion, indeed! Yes, I should think so.” 

““T may as well say now as when that much- 
abused person appears, that I shall maintain my 
authority in my own household in all matters con- 
nected with the engaging, retaining, or dischar- 
ging of those in my employ, and certainly shall not 
permit any one of them to be insulted either by 
your officious self or your sisters.” 

“Girls! You hear,’ shrilly exclaimed their 
leader—‘‘ you hear the preliminary defense of 
this brazen creature! But it shall not save her 
from being told the truth. I’ve no patience with 
such; eating our nephew out of house and home, 
while the servants are doing pretty much as they 
like.” 

Later in the afternoon, when his aunts were up 
to their necks in the choicest of his damask, Sir 
Horace stole an interview with his little captive. 

“‘ Almost tired of being in prison, pretty one ?”’ 

“No, I like it; I could stay here for a long, 
long time yet.” 

‘‘ Well, you’re going to, I hope.” 

She smiled archly. ‘‘ With a “ttle more liberty, 
you mean ?” 

“Tt will depend upon how you contrive to pre- 
possess our friend in your favor,” said he, with a 
sly look. . 

At which a warm glow tinged the child’s face. 
As the time drew near she became tremulous lest 
any accident should mar their plan. Sir. Horace 
went on to dress for dinner, and while thus en- 
gaged his party arrived. It took a long time for 
all the aunts to kiss or to be kissed by all their 
nieces, while Lady Vivian somewhat coldly gave 
her hand in turn to each; so that Sir Horace had 
time to send down to request the immediate at- 


90 A MODERN 


tendance of Mrs. Thompson up stairs, This was 
done quietly and without attracting observation, 
by the most sensible of Sir Horace’s servants, 
and presently the lady appeared, looking, if any 
thing, the better for the sea-voyage, and more 
delicately pretty than ever. 

““T am glad to see you back, madam, although 
rather earlier than I wished; but no doubt Lady 
Vivian has explained to you that we are some- 
times honored by—by—” 

The lady smiled, and Sir Horace knew she was 
acquainted with all concerning the terrible in- 
fliction. He had now to account for the motive 


of their strange procedure, and briefly as possi-. 


ble Sir Horace thought it advisable to describe 
events. This he did, speaking glowingly of his 
young charge, and admitting her having crept by 
infinitesimal degrees right into his stupid old 
heart. She was greatly moved, and with trem- 
ulous emotion seemed to hang upon his utter- 
ance with such eager anxiety he would not delay 
an instant communicating the truth. This he 
did with the greatest delicacy, showing her at 
once the retreat where her darling was conceal- 
ed, rightly judging she would be greatly relieved 
to retire to its privacy. 

His attention was diverted by the approach of 
the party: his wife, daughters, and aunts, all 
talking at once, and Miss Penelope louder than 
any of them, their approach being signaled by 
the confusion of tongues. While they were yet 
some distance off the sensitive baronet had time 
to recover himself; and upon their arrival greet- 
ed his wife and daughters affectionately, if with- 
out demonstrative enthusiasm. 

“And now,” continued Miss Penelope, resum- 
ing the discourse this greeting interrupted, ‘I 
have only to say that a female has been, and we 
believe is, concealed in this house; we deemed 
it only proper to communicate with you, and ad- 
vise your immediate return.” 

“And now that I have returned, Miss Penel- 
ope,” said Lady Vivian, with severe stateliness, 
“allow me to assure you that any accusation you 
may make against Sir Horace will be treated 
with the contempt it deserves. I have always 
had the most implicit confidence in my husband, 
and the last people who could ever destroy that 


confidence are yourselves. Your presence in 
this house is unnecessary, undesired, and unwel- 
come. I need say no more.” 

With disdainful majesty Lady Vivian turned 
from the tribe, as though their very presence was 
loathsome to her. 

“‘ Better go down into the housekeeper’s room, 
I think; I’ve come over quite sinking.” Thus 
Aunt Dido to Aunt Phyllis. 

‘‘QOne moment, Marion. We will make good 
our charge, or perish in the attempt.” 

Lady Vivian turned to address her husband— 

‘You will make arrangements for your rela- 
tives’ departure, Horace, as quickly as possible ?” 

“Yes, he’d better!’ cried Miss Penelope, 
threateningly. ‘‘And this is our reward, is it, 
for trying to preserve the honor ofthe family, 
and hush up what must have proved a public 
scandal. But, there, some women can submit to 
any thing; and, of course, being away from 
home so much, you don’t take the interest in it 
one might reasonably expect. We repeat, a fe- 
male is concealed in this house, and we will not 
quit it until the minx is discovered !” 


MINISTER. 


.“To hasten the former desirable event, my 
dear aunts, perhaps I can assist the latter.” 
“There, girls! You hear him! He actually 
admits it!’ Miss Penelope handed the bonbon 
effusion to Marion. ‘‘ Read it, my love; let us 
hear what your mamma thinks of that.” Laugh- 
ing heartily, Miss Vivian read the ludicrous jin- 
gle aloud. 
“Each scandal-loving spinster-maid 
Shall thus of this be made afraid.” 
“Exactly my sentiments,” said her ladyship, 
curtly, i 
“But we want to know how it came in that oak 
chest ?” asked Aunt Minerva, sharply. 
“A relic, I should think,” merrily cried the 
youngest Miss Vivian, ‘‘of my school-days, when 


I know I used to store my treasures in so many , 


different places, I often forgot where. I wish Pd 
one or two young playmates now! I get tired of 
my big sisters’ company sometimes.” 

“Well, that’s pretty and affectionate!” ex- 
claimed Miss Iphigenia. ‘I only wish I was your 
ma ! 
lady !” 

“Your interference is not required, Miss Iphi- 
genia !”’ said her ladyship, stiffly. 

‘And it wasn’t offered, ma’am,” replied the 
other, equally unbending. 

Lady Vivian drew herself up haughtily, with a 
look of unutterable scorn. 

“You will permit.me to pass ?” 
nelope. 

“Oh, certainly! It seems you’ve brought some 
airs from the Continent, but you can’t do it. like 
that woman in the Park!” (Miss Penelope will 
never forget that woman in the Park.) ‘And it 
strikes me.even your head will come down when 
you see what you willsee. Girls! girls! To the 
studio !” 

And therewith the fascinating speaker put her- 
self at the head of her troop, and in compact or- 
der marched to the door of Sir Horace’s sanctewm. 
The door was found locked, when, placing her 
back against it, Miss Penelope stoutly demanded 
the key. Before Sir Horace could reply there 
was a slight rustle, and the much-abused com- 
panion appeared upon the scene. She looked 
very interesting in her sad garb, and was dressed 
with much good taste; her manners were quietly 
collected, and of themselves disarming ; a touch- 
ing softness in the lowered gaze, and so pensive 
and sweet an expression proiiled against the group 
of ordinary faces there assembled, that the effect 
was to instantly quell the hubbub. Her actions 
were watched with cat-like scrutiny as she stood 
with perfect self-possession before the grim tri- 
bunal. ; 

‘“‘So you’re the new companion, are you ?” con- 
temptuously hissed the leading goddess. 

Lady Vivian volunteered the reply, “‘ This is my 
friend, and my daughters’ friend.” ; 

“Yes, and your husband’s friend, I should 
think.” Aunt Penelope tossed her curls signifi- 
cantly. Sir Horace was slowly opening the door. 
“You know we may find nothing, for Horace is 
very deep.” 

That gentleman thought he would be deep 
enough to prevent recurrence of this invasion of 
the goddesses. The inner door was reached, and 
Aunt Penelope herself sharply opened it. 

There sat the foundling over a book, not in the 


To Miss Pe- 


least disturbed by their entrance, and looking so 


My word, but I'd keep you under, young: 


¥ 


A MODERN MINISTER. 91 


pretty, the sight alone would have won the hearts 
of any but the spectral crew who had thus abrupt- 
ly broken in upon her. 

The aunts looked confounded at the discovery, 
but Miss Penelope, who was unprepared as any 
of them for it, had the presence of mind to ex- 
claim, “There, girls! What did I tell you?” She 
looked round with triumph at her followers, cran- 
ing their necks to obtain a glimpse of the phenom- 
enon. Sir Horace was about to explain, when, to 
his surprise, Lady Vivian, looking inquiringly at 
the companion, asked, “ The little girl you told me 
of ?” and going up to the child, kissed her with 
much kindness. Then the youngest daughter of 
Sir Horace did the same, commenting affectionate- 
ly upon the beauty of their little visitor. Hold- 


_ing the child’s hand in hers, Mrs. Thompson turn- 


ed toward the goddesses with this simple key to 
all the mystery, “‘ My little girl, ladies, kindly tak- 
en charge of by Sir Horace during my absence 
with his daughters.” 

The resemblance between mother and daughter 
was marked; the countenances of the thirteen 


aunts drooped simultaneously. 


“ And we shall still be very glad indeed to take 
charge of her,” Sir Horace hastened to add, in or- 
der that there should be no mistake, of course aft- 
er the interchange of meaning and kindly looks 
between himself and her ladyship. 

“T shall drop if I don’t have something to take !”’ 
Aunt Dido whispered to the dear one nearest her. 

But Aunt Penelope’s hour had come. She 
had played out her strategy and was vanquished. 
The rout of the Amazons was complete. Turn- 


‘ing indignantly to her force, their leader thus 


declaimed, “Girls! darlings! We are of no fur- 
ther use here; nay, more, our company is not ap- 
preciated. We will go where true maidenly mod- 
esty and chivalrous womanly sympathy touch a 
kindred chord, and awaken that of the pure and 
untainted. Girls, we will visit our cousins the 
Comdarlingtons, of Brighton. I am only sorry 
we have remained here so long as we have, for 
Horace and his wife are downright ungrateful, 
and don’t deserve the interest we have shown.” 

“Pleasant prospect for the Comdarlingtons !”’ 
whispered Sir Horace, while offering his arm to 
her ladyship. Turning with a graceful inclina- 
tion of farewell, Lady Vivian thus addressed her 
husband’s relatives at parting : 

“TJ think it right to tell you, Miss Penelope, 
that it was not your mischief-making aspersion 
directed against my husband’s honor which 
brought me back to England; it was simply the 
knowledge that you were in this house, of itself 
sufficient to require the immediate presence of its 
mistress. We shall esteem the relief afforded by 
your departure, and sincerely hope you will not 
trouble to come again. If, as I believe, you car- 
ry the same want of charity and love of mischief 
wherever you go, it is certain you must leave one 
general trail of sorrow and ill.” 

It came rather hard upon the devoted band, 
but Aunt Penelope, who had as many lives as a 
cat, resented it with spirit. 

“Tt shows what you are!” she screamed. 
“Talking at your husband’s relations in that 
manner, But we beg to inform you, madam, that 
long before you came interloping into the family 
we were there, and it will take a better than you 
to root us out of it. I should like to know where 
the family would have been by this time if it had 


not been for us?” Sir Horace and his lady heard 
no more; taking the child with them, and ac- 
companied by its mother, they retired to the draw- 
ing-room. “I’m very sorry for your poor dear 
misguided mother, Marion,” continued Aunt Pe- 
nelope to the eldest Miss Vivian. ‘We have 


‘been thinking of you, dear children, acting in 


your behalf, who have no one to act for you, and 
are unable to act for yourselves. May you be 
preserved from the evil effects of such bad ex- 
ample! Poor lambs! poor lambs!” 

“Poor wolves! poor wolves!” mimicked the 
youngest Miss Vivian, who was something of a 
rogue, while Miss Iphigenia, who overheard it, 
darted at her playful niece one of her most scath- 
ing looks. 

Considerable was the commotion incidental to 
the departure of the force, and it was a pleasing 
sight when the little conqueror was installed in 
the very throne usurped by great Aunt Penelope. 
All embarrassment and worry over, the kind Sir 
Horace shone in his true colors, and a right 
courtly and genial gentleman did he appear. 
Lady Vivian laughed over his ludicrous account 
of the shifts to which he had been compelled to 
resort in order to preserve intact “the honor 
of the family.” And Sir Horace laughed over 
the exceedingly clever plan, as he thought, 
adopted for extrication from their dilemma; a 
plan so clever as to be perfectly true. “ But 
never mind,” he said, good-humoredly, “let those 
laugh that win, and all’s well that ends well.” 

Language were too feeble to paint the inward 
joy and thankfulness of the mother, who had lit- 
tle expected this reward upon her return to Lon- 
don, Thus strangely do things come about! To 
have her darling with her beneath the same roof, 
beloved even and made so much of by the family, 
was more than, in her wildest imagination, she 
had dared to hope for. 

And Sir Horace would have the child with 
him constantly, and, it is not too much to say, 
was amply rewarded for his earlier contest in her 
behalf. ‘I don’t know who is kindest to my lit- 
tle girl,” the grateful mother would say, ‘ your- 
self, her ladyship, or the dear young ladies.” 
Mrs. Travers had only disclosed so much of her 
history as would enlist the sympathy of the kind- 
hearted family; but they detected the birth and 
recognized the gentle breeding, while loving her 
for the sweet amiability, her chief characteristic. 

“JT understand from the little girl that your 
poor husband used to write, ma’am—was a 
scholar, in short—and being, like myself, a lover 
of books, I apprehend he devoted the greater 
part of his time to literature?” This was the 
only allusion ever made to Lionel, and noticing 
that the subject was too affecting for the lady to 
converse upon, Sir Horace did not again recur to 
it. He troubled himself about nothing; he had 
escaped from the locusts, and had secured his 
foundling; he was simply satisfied. And his sat- 
isfaction took the form of visiting his club less 
and staying at home more. “Owing to my re- 
turn,” thought Lady Vivian, complacently, and 
general harmony prevailed. The child was very 
fond of him, and it was her delight to pass her 
time in the library or study. Flattered by this 
attachment, Sir Horace would find even more 
than usual in one or other of the rooms to en- 
gage his attention. “ And as I grow grayer,” he 
thought, “she will grow fairer, with all the 


92 


bloom of stately girlhood making a poem of her 
years; and then will come the day when she will 
elect a younger hero upon whom to bestow at- 
tachment, one with brighter eye, more even teeth, 
and whiter hand; with a head clustered thick 
about with darker curls, and ways which woo 
and win. Ah, well! So true it is, one comes to 
love young life the more the wider seems the 
span !” 

One day Sir Horace received a short note and 
present from his dear aunt Penelope. The note 
ran— 


“Dear NepHew,—Accept the inclosed from 
your sorrowing aunts, who yet hope to see that 
Bathsheba destroyed. PENELOPE.” 


The present was a perforated card or book 
marker, whereon was worded in scarlet silk this 
classical quotation from the poet— 


“There is no strange handwriting on the wall, 
Thro’ all the midnight hum no threatening call, 
Nor on the marble floor the stealthy fall 
Of fatal footsteps. All is safe. Thou fool, 

The avenging deities are shod with wool.” 

ALLEN BUTLER. 


‘Complimentary !” was Sir Horace’s brief com- 
ment. But.he acknowledged his aunt’s thought- 
ful little present, thus— 


“Dear Aunt,—Thanks for quotation. Accept 
inclosed in return, from your still unreformed yet 
dutiful Horace.” 


A plain glazed card of Lady Vivian’s, whereon, 
in the neatest of caligraphy, this double inscript— 
‘Tf Parliament were to consider the sporting with 

reputation of as much importance as sporting on 

manors, and pass an act for the preservation of 
fame, there are many who would thank them for 
the bill.”—Suerripan. 


‘“To hear an open slander is a curse ; 
But not to find an answer is a worse. ”__OvID. 


And there was no reply received to this. 


ee enna 


CHAPTER XXII. 
“WALTER” IS RECAPTURED. 


Wuev, the morning following the flight of Lena 
from the home of Lord Eller by, that mysterious 
event was brought to light, his lordship, shrug- 
ging his shoulders disgustedly, merely observed, 
“Well, I do think that young person the most 
singular being I have ever had to do with!” and 
dismissed it, ‘bestowing more attention mn. his 
charming pupil. 

Lord Ellerby was excessively annoyed, but he 
never permitted these commonplace ailments to 
become apparent or to annoy him long, and he 
appeared pretty indifferent. Not so ‘ Walter,” 
whose interest, sympathy, and love clung tena- 
ciously to the runaway maiden. “ Walter” could 
not account for this strong prepossession ; there 
it was, and she could not forget it, and even Lor- 
ry’s company failed to erase the strong impres- 
sion. The erratic young fugitive was, indeed, sore- 
ly missed by the three. ‘“ Walter” felt to some 
extent wounded; they had been even as sisters, 
and she thought her companion might at least 
have told her of any scheme she had in contem- 
plation. This “ Walter” believed to be the pur- 
suit of her journey. She had so many times 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


spoken anxiously of St. Aubyn; and then “ Wal- 


_ter” recalled her own words with a pang, and 


took it to heart that these might have been in- 
strumental in causing her friend sudden alarm. 
All this disturbed sensitive ‘‘ Walter,” and after 
Lorry’s return to his art master at Kensington, 
in company with Lord Ellerby, she set forth ona 
long walk to try and find her friend, having ap- 
prised his lordship of her intention before he de- 
parted on his drive. He saw no objection, and 
playfully remarked, “ Don’t you run away from 
me as well!” and drove on. Lorry’s last words 
were, ‘‘ Do take care of yourself for my sake; and 
—I would go on to Mr. Percival’s as quickly as 
possible ; lam sure they will be very kind to you.” 
‘““ Walter” had told her boy friend all; and she 
thought his advice was good, and meant to act 
upon it shortly. Meantime she went on her walk. 
It occurred to her that Lena would in all proba- 
bility go on to St. Alban’s. She had mentioned 
the town, and said she was proceeding there when 
she encountered ‘‘ Walter,” who followed that di- 
rection, feeling she could rest content if only with 
a good-by kiss. 

Now, ail unknown to the child, and just with- 
out the town, was encamped the equestrian es- 
tablishment that had passed her some nights pre- 
viously upon the road. The large tent had been 
erected in a field known as the Fair Field, and 
around it were collected the cars and chariots 
which had rendered the one-o’clock procession 
through the streets of St. Alban’s a spectacle for 
gaping wonder. A flag floated from the summit 
of the central pole, whereon the natives of Hert- 
fordshire read Rin@pom anD TANNER. It was the © 
afternoon performance, and the place was pack- 
ed with a motley crowd, and judging from the 
screams of laughter, the circus gave every satis- 
faction. It must be confessed in the case of 
Ringdom and Tanner’s Circus the horses were not 
the strongest point; the stereotyped 80 would 
have required looking for with very multiplying 
eyes, while the “elaborate pageant” had to be 
considerably diluted to make it extend the adver- 
tised mile. But what the proprietors lacked in 
equine force was compensated for by the talent 
of the company. A red-faced, raw-boned, auda- 
cious troupe it was, with clowns, vaulters, musical 
jesters, trick-act and bare-back riders, sylphs of 
the arena, jugglers, contortionists, and athletes ; 
and last, but by no means least, a great attraction 
known as “ Boneless Joey of Japan,” the most 
fiend-like sprite that ever tied himself into a ter- 
rible knot; without backbone or any other bone 
—an India rubber démon run to seed. He had 
been wont to admire little “‘ Walter,” whose fear 
of him amounted to aversion. Somehow the 
priceless Joey had straggled from or tumbled off 
the great triumphal car, and by the laws govern- 
ing or favoring such evil loves, his were the eyes 
to light on “ Walter,” as he hurried along to take 
his part in the performance already commenced. 
Spell-bound, the girl felt powerless, then darted a 
rapid look round to discover some outlet of es- 
cape. There was only the length of the street, and 
some yards ahead the old gray abbey walls; to 
be caught in its gloomy cloisters would be worse 
than to remain and face the danger where men 
and women passing to and fro held forth some 
hope of sympathy and help. As the snake fas- 
cinates the poor fluttering bird, he never removed 
his sinister transfixing gaze, ’ stepping gingerly 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


forward as one may when about to catch some 
winged beautiful creature that will take to timif 
flight; she could not remove her eyes, nor flee, 
but leaning against the door of a baker’s shop, 
experienced the horrible feeling of every limb be- 
ing lifeless while the heart beats at dangerous 
speed. 

The movement of the creature, sinuous, coiling, 
soft, thrilled her with horror; she fell back a pace, 
and the start broke the influence. She hurriedly 
entered the shop. A woman serving behind the 
counter looked up, and, surprised by the wan, 
frightened face, asked if she was not well. 

“Will you protect me?” gasped the pretty 
stranger; “that man is wishing to take me away 
against my will.” The woman doubtless thought 
it very strange; she was not unkindly looking, 
and seemed interested by this delicate boy plead- 
ing for defense, and when the persecutor entered 
her shop she went round to the customers’ side 
of the counter, and with arms akimbo, asked him 
what he wanted, while “ Walter” stole behind her 
and near the door of her little sitting-room, Then 
Messrs. Ringdom and Tanner’s valuable auxiliary 
accused the child of being an apprentice of the 
circus, and of running away from her masters. 
It seemed a serious charge, and the woman low- 


ered her arms, turned slowly round, and asked: - 


“Ts this‘the truth?” The child’s head drooped. 
Then, looking up with touching candor, she re- 
plied, “Yes. I was ill-used.” 

“Tf you belong to them I mustn’t interfere.” 
- With a passionate ery, “‘ Walter” caught hold of 
the woman’s arm, but she was obdurate, enter- 
taining strong ideas upon the runaway question, 
and actually saw the panting fragile child, over- 
whelmed by this indifference and pallid with ter- 
ror, taken from the shop and away in the direc- 
tion of the circus. 


eh tugs ees 
CHAPTER XXIII. 


CONSTANCE. 


Tue girls of Devon are extremely beautiful. 
Take a hay field, and glance at the tanned, rosy- 
cheeked peasantry ; there is more splendor of face 
and form upon that odorous hedge-girt area than 
may sometimes be found in an entire county. Or 
take a village schoolin Devonshire, and look along 
the forms where girlhood sits at work, and one 
may see some of the loveliest faces conceivable. 
Yet again, take a bazar, flower show, concert, or 
one or other of those meets dear to womankind, 
and what a grouping together of sweet faces will 
be seen! Constance Evelyn was born in Devon- 
shire and reared in Devonshire, and that air which 
seems to kindle beauty naturally had nurtured 
this exquisite girl, and that Devonshire sun which 
paints the glow of health as nowhere else had tint- 
ed the cheeks with a glow that shamed the beau- 
ties of Devon itself. And even as impurity floats 
over some whole counties like a miasma, infecting 
and polluting the entire surface of the people, so 
there are counties exempt from the abomination 
—counties where the meadows should be flecked 
with lilies from year’s end to end, and where a 
white banner should be at the entrance to the 
towns, with these words upon its snowy breadth : 
“ Here girl or woman may dwell in safety.” That 
would be well, for man would then know where 


‘to send his wife or daughters. 


98 


Among such 
Elysian lands Devonshire ranks with honor. And 
Constance Evelyn, whose nature, character, and 
disposition were a happy blending of those fair 
traits rendering dear to us the names of Elaine 
and Evangeline, partook in her fairness of this 
purity of Devon. She had hardly passed the por- 
tals of her seventeenth year, and taken upon her 
the grace of graver girlhood, yet was so quietly 
gentle and so thoughtful, one might have supposed 
her of more advanced age. 

The Minister had known her from childhood, 
had marked the beautiful expanding of that pu- 
rity and thought, and the loveliness, like a dream: 
could he do otherwise than mark it? Often he 
had said to Evelyn, ‘‘ Your daughter will be won- 
drously beautiful; do, pray, be careful with her!” 
But this was no more than brother or friend might 
think of, and say with highest motive. One day 
Mr. Evelyn had said, “I am thinking of sending 
Constance to boarding-school; I can not afford a 
good governess at home, and the child’s education 
will suffer.” This was long ago. His friend an- 
swered, ‘‘ Pray do nothing of the kind. Engage 
the best governess procurable, and look to me 
for the payment of her salary.” And the curate 
accepted this munificent offer, and Constance was 
expensively educated at the cost of their friend. 
Constance, with her delicately sensitive nature, 
became uncomfortable under this, upon passing 
into that thoughtful stage; but she had been so 
scrupulously reared to look upon this man as the 
best friend they possessed in all the world, so 
taught to regard.him in the light of a benefactor 
and a princely genius of all good, that she gave 
him that touching reverence verging upon, adora- 
tion which girls bestow upon the hero of their 
chaste and poetical musing. Not a being—not 
even one of her sweet girl companions—knew of 
the recesses in her heart where she treasured her 
tenderest idealism. To speak of it seemed sacri- 
lege ; even to think oft spoiled the delicate charm 
with its rapture of secret possession. And ere 
long this reserving of fine reveries and still weav- 
ing of beautiful dreams resolved itself into the 
one form possible; and Love was born. From 
thence set in a most blissful era, and this experi- 
ence also was too sacred to be confided to every 
girl she met; so that what with the reverent ado- 
ration, the sensitive gratitude, the tender idealism, 
the halo of beauty, the shadowing of genius, the 
fascination, and the silken tyranny of love, this 
poor little mortal was deeply enamored long be- 
fore leaving Torquay. 

Before ever that event occurred, or was even 
broached, Constance knew all about the plight she 
was in. Nobody told her, because nobody knew 
of it; she discovered it herself under guidance of 
those instincts which are the feelers and suscepti- 
bilities of the perception ; and the girl was troubled. 
The feeling seemed to her verging upon treachery, 
and it caused her sorrow. She had, as she thought, 
one consolation—Ae did not know of it. She felt 
if he should ever find it out, she must sink into 
the earth, or hide her shame-dyed face, never to 
lift it more—a feeling arising partly of her exqui- 
site modesty, partly of imperfect knowledge of 
him. 

For days after their settling in Brighton she 
avoided with all her strength the chance of a 
meeting with him, and even sought to persuade 
her father to permit her to visit some distant rel- 


4 


— 


94 


atives; but Mr. Evelyn was inexorable, and ex- 
pressed his displeasure upon thus being press- 
ed. 

It was quite true Constance had often been at 
the Hall; she had there passed the blissful dream- 
time of her life. In those days, before ever trouble 
and sorrow and humiliation had broken him upon 
the wheel of stern suffering, Lionel Travers was 
(with his charm of refined manner, his beauty of 
person, his grace of intellect and genius, and the 
tenderness inseparable from the man), of all with 
whom she could possibly have been thrown in 
contact, the very being who would impress her by 
outward influence. 

And he, who had always treated her as the 
petted girl companion of his wife and playmate 
of his child, experienced honest pleasure without 
a thought of harm when she was with them ; ; and 
as he would have loved a little sister of his wife’ 8, 
he welcomed her sunny presence gladly as an ad- 
ditional charm to home and the fireside circle, or 
to the quiet summer evening’s roaming for ferns ; 
so he loved the girl well, and later on saw no cause 
to prevent his proving the friend of her father. 
And there was a touch of homesickness about 
that invitation to the curacy, the yearning to look 
on the old face of a friend—of one, the one, of all 
that had known him then. There was hunger to 
hear that gentle girl talk lovingly of his ; there was 
the faintness and weariness so often attendant upon 
a great purpose, when one feels it impossible to 
go on and adhere to the line marked out without 
something that shall refresh by its olden memory. 
It is a human need, and often an absolute neces- 
sity ; and when Robert Evelyn came to Brighton 
it was a sincere pleasure to the Minister. 

When Westley Garland found the girl avoided 
him he was, at first, much hurt; this also he did 
not show. Then he said to himself, “She is grow- 
ing older, and this is mere maidenly reserve—the 
exquisite quality which is so marked in Con- 
stance.” And he waited; the timidity natural 
under the circumstances would pass. He knew 
the touching reverence with which she had looked 
up to him in the past; in his present position 
this would be augmented. 

As the waves of wheat ears shake from them 
the evening sun, stirred by the low winds of hot 
July days, murmuring along hidden ridges of cool 
earth, or as broad belts of the sea rear themselves 
to the flood of light, while swift, hot currents cir- 
cle and eddy about ‘their strong, deep bosoms, so 
did the pure love of this innocent flower from Ar- 
cadia dally with the thought and the musing that 
were so precious, yet of which she was all afraid. 
Those shadows! those shadows! Flitting across 
her picture, not as mere sleepy rests, but shad- 
ing, casting roseate color into dense relief ; and 
even the color on her picture at times taking weird 
and irregular and inharmonious twisting, with red 
entering a miniature arena for a joust with black, 
while the tilting of blue, of green, and of yellow 
was out of its order completely. The picture be- 
came very overcast, what with this and its shad- 
ing, so that poor little Constance was troubled, 
vastly troubled. She had not learned of her sex 
the art of holding hues or emotions in supreme 
control; for was she not motherless, sisterless, 
none of womankindat hand with invaluable teach- 
ing, no too-sagacious girl friend to enlighten? 
All alone, nursing her fancies like so many hot- 
house flowers, and half afraid of these, being un- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


versed in botany, and aware by instinct only of 
pretty things that sting or poison. 

Then, like stars or points of hushed intensity, 
there were the joyous recollections: old memo- 
ries and recalled times of quiet delight passed in 
his society and that of his dear wife. There had 
been the converse by sweet sound on autumn 
evenings, when she had played the accompani- 
ment to his richly modulated voicing of old hymns, 
and when Ella’s voice had joined with hers in 
musical praise. Such seasons were dearer to-both 
husband and wife than those grand visiting even- 
ings, when the élite of the neighborhood assembled 
in their rooms, and Eagle Hall for the time lost 
its customary serenity. 

Even now Constance had the enjoyment of the 
Sabbath, and would steal into his church all un- 
observed, and hang upon his utterance. She 
would ever remember that first occasion of hear- 
ing him in the pulpit. Until then she had never 
known the man, nor realized his power, but from 
then he was a being of yet higher and more ex- 
alted nature, and her reverence increased, what- 
ever her love might be. She had not been in the 
least surprised to find that their friend had enter- 
ed upon a clerical life; it had often been the topic 
of his expressed wish for the future. But Con- 
stance had been marvellously surprised to learn 
not only that Mrs. Travers was not resident with 
him under his new name and in his affluence, 
but that the unfortunate lady and her little girl 
had altogether disappeared. It was curious, and 
Miss Evelyn puzzled her pretty head over it while ° 
at needle-work until the pretty head ached. 

The curate and his daughter were as surprised 
as any one at the suddenness with which all had 
been brought about, for the goods were removed 
by strangers without commotion and with great 
haste. They had visited Mrs. Travers two or 
three times, but had seen that their friend desired 
to be alone with her grief, and calling one day, 
it was to find the place stripped, and their friends 
gone no one knew whither. It was brought pain- 
fully to mind that first Sunday morning upon which 
Constance heard the Minister preach, when his 
text, taken from the fourth chapter of Lamenta- 
tions, was that pathetic refrain, ‘ They that did 
Seed delicately are desolate in the streets.” The full 
power of moving the heart, of which he was so 
consummate a master, was never evidenced with 
more touching eloquence than in that discourse ; 
and to Constance, who knew all that his heart 
was full of, it was doubly so. Yet was its pathos 
not oppressive, rather yielding a fragrance that 
rejoices: if one accepted the workmanship for its 
beauty it was necessary to accept the casket for 
its essence, neither being worthy without the oth- 
er. And while walking homeward there came to 
mind the words of her father’s favorite poet: 


“IT went to listen to my teacher friend. 
O Friend above, thanks for the friend below! 
Who having been made wise, deep things to know, 
With brooding spirit over them doth bend, 
Until they w aken words, as wings, to send 
Their seeds far forth, seeking a place to grow.” 


A day or two afterward, when Mr. Garland met 
Robert Evelyn, he told him he was in a little 
difficulty about his house at Hawkingdean—his 
favorite house, by-the-way—a species of hermitage 
to which the overtaxed student retired for his 
sole seasons of leisure. The housekeeper had 
been summoned to the sick-bed of her daughter 


a Pe 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


in Wales; might be absent some little time; he 
esteemed the woman, and wished to keep the situ- 
ation open for her, but it would be inconvenient ; 
the Minister’s poor would suffer; the system of 
charity he had organized would be thrown out of 
order, 

Then Mr. Evelyn said— 

“Tf you can put up with her inexperience, 
Constance shall go; she is a capital little house- 
keeper, though I say it, anid I am sure, if she once 
gets in the way of it, will supply Mrs. Mellerton’s 
place very well.” 

“T think this offer most kind,” said Mr. Gar- 
land. He did, but for the moment thought not 
of the young lady herself, except as recalling 
those fern gatherings and carol singings. Yes, 
he thought the offer kind, and said so. Equally 
guileless the curate jogged homeward, and was 
met on the mat by his carefully trained daughter, 
to whom, stooping, he gave a very affectionate 
kiss, and—‘ Piece of good luck for you, my dear ; 
extraordinary chance of distinguishing yourself ; 
first step in life! Always remember your poor 
father’s precepts, and keep your dear mother’s 
ensample before you. Lock the tea-caddy after 


‘ going to it; clean paper the bottoms of your 


cupboards; be sure and have all the corners of 
the rooms well swept out; see that the servants 
wipe their shoes; look all round the last thing at 
night; and, above all, keep the place very quiet. 
I’m exceedingly delighted; opportunity of prov- 
ing the Evelyns are not ungrateful; happy coinci- 
dence, that daughter in Wales; ought not to say 
so either, but it’s most extraordinary, that it is!” 
' The well-meaning curate paused ; and interest- 
ed, surprised, and fluttering, his daughter inquired 
of him the meaning of the odd address; she 
hoped it held out a promise of her being enabled 
to quit Brighton, so she awaited his explanation 
with eagerness. 

“ Briefly, my dear, ?ve a comfortable, responsi- 
ble, lady-like situation in view for you, upon which 
you will be required to enter to-morrow, and in 
which I hope you will prove yourself worthy of 
your father’s precepts and your mother’s en- 
sample.” 

“JT will try to do so, papa dear!” winding her 
arms about him very lovingly. ‘I have always 
been your own good, obedient, dutiful little girl, 
have I not?” 

“You have, my child, thanks to careful bring- 
ing up, and I hope will always continue to prove 
so !” ‘ 

“Well, papa, what is it, and where? Not in 
Brighton, I hope ?” 

- “Not in Brighton.” 

“Then I am willing to take it, wherever it is, 
whatever it may be;” and inthe intensity of her 
relief she literally hugged her far-seeing parent. 

“You promise me this very faithfully, Con- 
stance ?” 

“Most faithfully, papa!” cried his daughter, 
eagerly. 

“Caught !”’ said Robert Evelyn to himself, 
highly rejoiced; and aloud, “It is to keep our 
friend Mr. Garland’s country house at Hawking- 
dean during the temporary absence of his house- 
keeper; perhaps, if you are scrupulously careful, 
altogether.” 

Gradually the arms released their hold, but she 
still leaned upon him, and her beautiful head fell 
heavily to his shoulder. There was no other 


95 


movement, and, looking on the slant, he could see 
that her face was very white. Then he turned, 
encircling her, and supported the frail burden, 
inanimate and powerless ; she had fainted. 

‘Bless my soul!” cried Robert Evelyn; “ this 
is most extraordinary!’ He had not heard the 
door softly opened ; the intruder stepped forward 
at a stride, deeply solicitous. 

“Don’t be alarmed—understand these faint- 
ings—retired medical man—tremendous practice. 
Shut the door, please—pass me a footstool ; now, 
something cold, letter-weight over there do very 
well—bring her to in a jiffy—painful spectacle 
—father’s heart—look another way, please; so, 
so, coming round—presence of mind every thing. 
Turn the cat out, shut her in the yard—can’t have 
squalling in the passage. Glad I called—just in 
time—shut the door again as you go out.” 

The singular visitor, whom Mr. Evelyn remem- 
bered to have called once before, had a knee on 
the footstool, a foot on the floor, and, supporting 
the slight form with true professional regard, had, 
as he said, brought her round. So much recov- 
ered was his patient, that, as the door closed upon 
Mr. Evelyn (covering the cat’s head.with his coat 
tail to prevent its remonstrance during transit), 
she was entirely conscious, and released herself, 
very much embarrassed. 

“Don’t be put out, my dear; I am your friend, 
and old enough to be your father. Know your 
secret—don’t be ashamed of it—have a little chat 
first opportunity. Accept this offer; why not ? 
Best friend of his poor wife’s; left thé country 
—mistaken, I think; but, however—queer sex— 
by all means keep his house, look after him—it’s 
your duty—no wrong attached; always stick to 
your instincts—they point to Hawkingdean; the 
poor man wants somebody faithful and attentive ; 
hard world this for the widower—widower. my- 
self, very much so—hired people selfish, negligent 
—don’t look after one’s comfort, every thing to 
aliterary man. Take my advice—study his com- 
fort—he deserves it; noble man—wonderful: 
obey your father—wishes are law—good father, 
I’m sure!” 

The retired medical man had heard the good 
father enter, and he heard the liberal commenda- 
tion of himself. He advanced to thank the op- 
portune visitor, who, like Asmodeus, always seem- 
ed turning up in the nick of time; while Constance, 
startled, half frightened, and certainly bewildered, 
rising and staggering a little, asked permission to 
withdraw. The ex-disciple of Aésculapius himself 
opened the door for the fair child, and contrived 
to intercept her downcast glance, conveying a 
swift look full of meaning as a cunningly worded 
telegram. Then he returned and took the seat 
Mr. Evelyn had placed for him by the fire. 

“Charming daughter, yvours—I have a charm- 
ing daughter—let us shake hands; we have not 
yet done so.” 

They did so, Mr. Evelyn thinking the gentleman 
the most singular person he had ever encounter- 
ed; but then he knew Brighton was not like Tor- 
quay, that the inhabitants are cosmopolitan, and, 
probably, the callers upon the clergy as diversi- 
fied as in any sphere of ministerial labor upon 
which a man could enter. When the stranger 
called upon Mr. Evelyn in the first instance it 
was to congratulate him upon coming to Brighton, 
to make his acquaintance, to wish him long and 
continued success in his new field of labor, to of- 


96 


fer his friendly services, to invite him to call now 
and then with Miss Evelyn at Regina Cottage, and 
to hint that a pretty good donation to local char- 
ities would create a very favorable impression 
upon the minds of the public. Of this Mr. Bav- 
nard undertook the disbursement, to save, as he 
said, Mr. Evelyn’s losing invaluable time ped- 
dling about ascertaining the most worthy, and the 
new curate was there and then mulct in two £5 
notes, for which he was a very great fool doubt- 
less; but let any one try first the sensation of en- 
tering the most popular church in Brighton as a 
co-helper in the work of the ministry, and next 
the peculiar experience of being called upon by 
Mr. Noel Barnard, who was no ordinary ambas- 
sador, and all wonder will cease. 

“ Thought I'd just look in to see how you were 
getting on; think it the duty of the parishioners ; 
great fault of the present day stand-offishness, 
pastorate aloof from the people, people aloof 
from the pastorate ; glad to know you, pleased to 
see you looking so well, very.” 

And the visitor nodded good -humoredly, al- 
though a degree patronizingly, to the new curate. 
Somehow, somewhere, from somebody, the Rev. 
Robert Evelyn had heard that Brighton was chiefly 
peopled with doctors who were practicing and 
doctors who had done practicing; this was evi- 
dently one of the latter, in all probability a man 
of weight and substance. A little old, certainly, 
but then so much the more safe. Dear Constance 
was growing up; if any thing happened to him- 
self, the world was a cold place; one could not 
make a friend too many in the interests of the 
young and those depending upon one. Mr. Evelyn 
received the visitor’s friendly advances and gra- 
cious sociableness with the good manners he con- 
sidered beconfing in a curate who had not saved, 
not inherited, and was not expecting that which 
is called by peoplé of ~ free seats, the ‘‘ need- 
fil teeee 

“T agree with you, Mr. Barnard, that a more 
fraternal spirit ‘might exist. It isour duty to 
smooth each other’s paths and lighten each other's 
burdens.” 

“Well, I’ve tried to live up to that myself, but 
it’s such a precious ungrateful world! Did it 
ever strike you so? And [ve found so many 
people about ‘who are not what they seem,’ as 
the poet says; can’t make ‘t out. Who are you 
and who am I, and who’s the other fellow ? 
like being in a ship’s hold full of Butch cheeses 
inastorm. Takes me all my time to make peo- 
ple out.” 

Mr. Evelyn began to feel slightly uncomforta- 
ble; there was a something about this person, 
with all his free and agreeable manner, which 
the plain-going clergyman did not half like. 

“Tt is quite certain, Sir, the world is overfull 
of deceptive persons. I mean those it is difficult 
for an honest man to fathom.” 

With great solemnity the visitor laid a hand 
upon the other’s arm, and said, gravely, “ It’s 
positively awful! One of these days there’ll be 
an explosion, I know, to make more room for the 
honest ones.” 


It’s. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
LADY LINDON’S FAREWELL RECEPTION. 


Tue season had drawn to its close. It wanted 
sixteen days to Christmas. Those of London and 
the counties were departing, and ere long there, 
would be a great blank in Brighton society. 

There was some excitement astir: Lady Lindon 
would hold her last reception of the season, and 
it was rumored the lioh would be there. If so, 
it would be no.slight honor, for Westley Garland 
had been invited every where, and had been no- 
where; he did not go into society, although so 
essentially fitted for it. But it somehow became 
talked of in select circles that he would be at this 
reception, and it was looked upon as an event, al- 
though people were not so very much surprised 
that he should go to Lady Lindon’s, for somehow 
there had been a little mixing up of their names. 
Nobody quite knew how it had come about, but 
their names had been generally coupled when one 
or other was under discussion. 

Lady Lindon troubled herself as little as possi- 
ble previous to receiving her guests: a reception 
was as cool a piece of ‘custom as resuming the 
family name after a catastrophe. People were 
exceedingly glad to have the opportunity once 
more of curiously noting her ladyship’s residence, 
which they strolled over with the: delighted ex- 
pectancy one might suppose they would display 
in prying into the mysterious chambers of some 
barbaric chieftain. They knew so many ordinary 
people, all possessed of the approved elegant 
drawing and reception rooms—not a pin to choose 
between them, as though the furnishing of in- 
teriors was stereotyped. A visit to Lady Lindon 
was a new sensation; it revived after the sickening 
uneventful insipidity of customary polite attention. 
And it was as Lady Comdarlington said, “One 
met so many nice people there, whom one never 
seemed to meet any where else; such talented 
souls; the class that do not care for visiting, and 
are very difficult to draw out of their shells; the 
thoughtful men and women whom somehow we 
miss altogether; a little peculiar, I grant you, but 
eminently interesting.” 

The prestige of Lady Lindon’s réwnions certain- 
ly culminated upon the report circulating that the 
Minister would be present. ‘‘ By which is meant, 
I suppose,” ventured the Honorable Mrs. Glover, 
“if he can quit the sick-bed of one of the lower 
orders. I do think, dear, there should be some 
law to control valuable people like Westley Gar- 
land, who are certainly raised up for the special 
behoof of people in society, not to waste valuable 
time fiddle-faddling about among the lower vul- 

ar.’ 
ee He is such a darling!” murmured the pina 
ess, lusciously, as though he were a pomegranate 
and exquisite to the taste. 

‘“‘T never knew an instance,” said Miss Glover, 
‘“‘of one petted by the élite as he is having so or- 
dinary and gross a taste.” 

‘“‘T won’t have you say a word against my hero, 
a duck of aman. Ah! if you but knew his val- 
ue, could realize the bliss of his being unmarried, 
and— You know what I mean.” 

The countess languidly fanned herself. Her 
charming friend coldly replied, ‘‘ Pray don’t tall 
nonsense, dear! This person is all very well, and 
undoubtedly clever; but plain Js. would never 
please mamma, you know, so what is the use of 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


talking of it? Granted the wife of a man as tal- 
ented, what position does that confer in society ? 
And you know mamma thinks so much of that. 
The glory and lustre are all enshrined about the 
male creature, and, as a rule, I think the wives of 
these glorious and lustrous male creatures have 
an uncommonly hard time of it, a reflected light 
being at best but a chilly sort of radiance.” 

‘“‘ Well, I declare you are growing quite cynical ; 
your mamma must spare you to come and stay 
a while with us. I will try if I can not persuade 
you into seeing that there is many a gem of a man 
who does not sport his panelled quartering. But 
now tell me what you are going to wear at Lady 
Lindon’s ?”” When converse wandered into this 
channel, there was harmony. 

The people who have a penchant for the unique 
were especially glad to have again the opportunity 
of viewing the interior of her ladyship’s uncon- 
ventional abode. | And it was considered a shame 
that the splendid flowers of her conservatory 
should bloom and drop their gorgeous blossom 
broadcast and unseen except by the haughty mis- 
tress, who, for all they knew, might be scamper- 
ing the Pyrenees with an alpenstock when next 
the Brighton season came round. 

How the Minister came to give consent was in 
this wise. Compliant with his wish, her ladyship 
had called upon Lady Ellerby; it was a mission 
peculiarly objectionable to the first-named lady, 
but she performed her part with a grace and tact 
a less sensitive, less pain-disciplined, one would 
have failed in altogether. And Lady Ellerby was 
susceptible to this ; at once recognized it to be no 
inquisitive, hollow, mock sentimental visit, but 
one of deep import, dictated by a very high pur- 
pose, and Lady Ellerby experienced the gratitude 
none of womankind more genuinely feel than the 
young wife who fears herself to be neglected by 
her husband, and is visited by a friend of her own 
sex forthe express purpose of dealing in a straight- 
forward manner with the difficulty, and of smooth: 
ing the little ruggednesses which are such stum- 
bling-blocks upon the path. Simultaneously 
Westley Garland proceeded to town, and found 
out the artistic retreat of the lordly painter. His 
acquaintance with that individual was of the brief 
kind; but, as we know, he thought favorably of 
the truant. Lord Ellerby received the Minister 
with unfeigned pleasure, and when he opened his 
business with his own natural delicacy, Lord El- 
lerby laughed with frank delight. That people 
should have been busy with his name, his, the 
most erratic wanderer and roving Bohemian that 
ever pencilled the water torrents of Norway or 
pine-clothed crags of the Tyrol, so upset his equi- 
librium he enjoyed the idea as he only could en- 
joy such a situation. “I should very much like 
to assist these people’s kind inquiry, but unfortu- 
nately the lovely objects of my protection have 
vanished, as such always do, and left not a kiss 
behind. So there isn’t great cause for apprehen- 
sion, Mr. Garland. I am a student and disciple 
of nature, you must know, and care not much the 
form it take, so the form be beautiful. All the 
same, I am aware of a cultured class who, while 
admiring the sculpturesque i in art and poetry, will 
not tolerate the artistic and poetic in sculpture. 
Such would denounce my idealism of the beautiful 
while extolling the result of that idealism; and I 
have no patience to argue the question with this 
elegant division of critics. But now come and 

VoL, 11.—G 


97 


see for yourself, and tell me, could you have per- 
mitted such lovely children to have passed from 
you unlimned? They will be an ever-present 
pleasure to me.” Saying this, he revealed the 
studies where, alone and in company, the children 
of Lady Lindon figured with telling effect ; it was 
the Minister’s first introduction to the pair whose 
story was so romantic and unfortunate. Their 
story, as told by his lordship, aroused the interest 
of this investigator of human sorrow and misfor- 
tune, and he said, “The whole affair is so excep- 
tional and worthy of further inquiry, the sudden- 
ness of their departure ought not, I think, to be 
laid aside so dispassionately.” “Well, there is 
not much difficulty,” answered his lordship, “in 
discovering what has become of them; one has 
gone into Yorkshire, the other we should find, 
doubtless, at the farmer’s.” When Mr. Garland 
returned to Brighton it was not to forget either 
face, thanks to the skill of the artist. And Lord 
Ellerby bore with him, a day or two later, minia- 
tures of the engaging pair as a gift for Flora. 
Detailing the result of his quest to Lady Lindon, 
Mr. Garland said, “‘ As you wished, I have deliv- 
ered an invitation to your reception on the 16th; 
his lordship returns to-morrow, and will come to 
present his duty to your ladyship.” She smiled. 
““T want one other guest to crown my pleasure— 
my ambassador: you will come?” giving him her 
hand graciously. “Iwill try; but you know Iam 
an uncertain being.” 

It soon became known that Lord Ellerby would 
be there, and it was a source of gratification, that 
young noble being a general favorite, and having 
been so long abroad. He went to and fro, from 
his place in Paris to Florence, where he had a del- 
icate arbor-like cottage, blown or trailed together 
from a dream of his, and where he painted fan- 
tastic studies for the churches without reward, 
save the inward pleasure derived from the giving ; 
and the pleased Florentines, without clashing the 
English milord with their old Angelicos and Bot- 
ticellis, would hang his saintly heads in dim lady 
chapels, where devout peasants, themselves more 
fair, would kneel much moved by the haunting 
eyes whereto they prayed. 

Upon the evening of the reception the mansion - 
was agleam with lights and the glittering adjuncts 
of a. splendid entertainment... Away in a back- 
room, sitting at a littletable of brown wood, upon 
which he leaned an elbow, was Lord Darrell, dis- 
turbed by theeommotion. It was one of the nights 
he dreaded—one of the public nights; he avoided 
them, crept right away out of the domain of racket 
and noise. House-cleaning sends some sensitive | 
folk nearly out of their mind; in this instance it 
was the reception of company ; his lordship hated 
it. He was left to himself; not a soul went near 
unless he rang for them, and he would sit with 
his elbow on the table, looking musingly into the 
fire, immovable for long periods, “slowly form- 
ing” upon the geologic principle. But upon this 
particular night Lord Darrel somehow became 
restless and irascible. He heard carriage after 
carriage dash up, name after name announced ; 
heard indication of the large assembly moving in 
the state-rooms, and later on heard music. It 
set him quivering, affected his nerves ; he seemed 
to wish to join the throng, and literally saw no 
reason why he should not; experienced the desire 
to interchange a word or two with old cronies who 
possibly might be present, and with whom he used 


98 


to be akin in politics. He would go down. He 
did go down, scratching furtively at the fringe of 
tawny whisker, and looking timorously from the 
corners of his eyes. It was a scene of great mag- 
nificence which met his bewildered gaze; his 
queenly daughter, more magnificent than all, was 
seated upon a species of dais at the far end. So 
many brilliant beings intervened, his lordship 
could not summon resolution to penetrate so far ; 
and after unavailing attempts to discover some eye 
that would meet his own with kindness in it, ora 
face that would turn to him with friendliness, he 
gaye it up, glided over to the wall and the shelter 
of an alcove, where, upon a settee, he devoted 
himself to nursing one of his legs on the other, 
interlacing his hands over his knee, and watching 
the pageant from beneath his pent brows. He 
was the subject of ridicule and satirical comment, 
he knew. That insulting patrician vulgarism, the 
eyeglass, was lifted to inspect the strange being 
while passing, and he felt it, but he did not stir, 
foolishly perhaps thinking he had as good a right 
there:as most other people. It was considered, or 
tacitly admitted, to be not quite the thing to rec- 
ognize his lordship, and no one did so. Society 
assembled to recognize a lion, and to notice this 
decidedly foxy-looking individual would have been 
very bad form. Society has not agreed to be sad- 
dled with the fathers and other intrusive relatives 
and followers of those it encrowns and enthrones. 

Until the lion of the evening arrived, the cor- 
rect thing seemed to be, pressing forward for a 
word with Lady Lindon. Consummate elegance, 
cold and sad grace, marked her ladyship’s recep- 
tion of her guests. They had not noticed it be- 
fore, but it was now remarked that her ladyship 
wore dress mourning; it was pronounced highly 
becoming, but for whom had the freak taken her 
to mourn ? 
their satisfaction by supposing that, having ex- 
hausted every color upon earth, her ladyship had 
now fallen back upon this sombre splendor, and 
had accomplished a distinet success. It was mere- 
ly a court robe of French gray satin, over which 
were aerial clouds of black silk gauze confined 
by a delicate tracery of jet; a fall of lace and 
jet over the bare shoulders, a large cross of jet 
upon the bosom, where a chaste spray of white 
flowers was secured by a diamond brooch; a tiara 
of great magnificence, one of her Indian toys, 
consisting of regal diamonds, surrounded the 
haughtily borne head: from this a long and grace- 
ful fall of corresponding tulle or gauze; upon the 
right arm a highly chased bracelet of jet, entwin- 
ing a cirele of diamonds; a rich yet unassuming 
costume, and, for Lady Lindon, very much within 
bounds. 

But the lion was late. Society hoped it was not 
to be disappointed; meantime contented itself 
with lionizing Lord Ellerby, who was every where, 
all over the place. He enjoyed a word here and 
a word there before people had time to tire him, 
and he kept up a running play of amusing re- 
mark which made his breaking in upon the sev- 
eral dull groups a mutual pleasure, 

“‘Some choice stories afloat about you, Ellerby! 
What have you been up to? Assure you, if you 
don’t mend, you'll get black-balled !” 

It was the Earl of Comdarlington, a great 
dandy; having a piquant piece of scarlet bloom 
in his coat, and an infinite drawl that was mildly 
irritating. 


The majority of people settled it to 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Would your lordship really like to know 2” 
“T should, pon honor! Devil of a nuisance to 
lose a fellow like yourself for so long a time!” 
“JT thought so; that is why I came back. 
Well, I’ve been decorating my summer-house.” 
And the handsome artist-lord was off before 
the exquisite had time to reply. Gay, chatty, full 
of anecdote, with bits of cynical merriment, sharp, 
harmless, glittering as the corners of crystals: 
primed with the latest art news from every capital 


in Europe, distributing delicious sprigs of gossip 


until every group had a little posy of their own, 
well informed on all forth-coming dramatic, oper- 
atic, and literary events also, Lord Ellerby was 
every where the life and soul of the party. But 
with all this he was the last to satisfy scandal or 
feed personal gossip—and especially relative to 
himself; he would as soon have thought of trou- 
badouring the sunny lays of Baudelaire, De Mus- 
set, Gautier, or Béranger, as to enter into con- 
versation upon matters of delicacy with the ex- 
quisitely perfumed earl. 
‘has privileges of its own; it selects an orbit for 
itself; and be this never so eccentric, if it is in- 
deed a celestial orbit, we mere star-gazers must 
at last compose ourselves ; must cease to cavil at 
aber”, 

Lord Ellerby preferred, with a haughty yet affa- 
ble ease, to rely upon his privileges, and any cavil- 
lers were regarded with a nonchalance that was em- 
inently provoking, yet eminently curative. This 
courtly painter, follower of no modern school, not 
from contemptuous indifference, but that his er- 
ratic fancy luxuriated where it would, spelled but 
one language upon the canvas—the idealism of the 
Beautiful. He painted not for gold, fame, honor, 
and applause, but for the supreme pleasure it af- 
forded himself; thus, when his peers stepped for- 
ward with their criticism, it was one of those im- 
pertinences prudently brushed aside with a flutter 
of his handkerchief, and forgotten imstantly. <A 
message quivered upon his canvas—the message 
which rendered the gorgeous Florentines and 
Lombardians magnificent ; Color as an expres- 
sion, Loveliness as an idealism. It can not be 
said that he followed in the steps of Correggio, 


‘Leonardo da Vinci, or Guido, because he followed 


in no steps; but the license of these masters in 
regard to color and form was his special feature. 
One day Lady Lindon said to him, ‘“‘ What curious 
studies you paint! neither classical nor modern— 
an odd commingling of both!” 

“* Ay, I like these conceits ; they are antidote to 
the prosaic. I never could darken my stage with 
faces like flashes of light broken upon dull bronze, 
a dense purple air that seems heavy with sad and 


weary hearts, when one can well-nigh hear the 


fall of a rain of tears, while around lie the burned- 
out ashes of pleasure; I don’t care for it! Cu- 
pids and Sylphs gathering daffodils near Hamp- 
stead Heath, if you like, only by all means let us 
have the Cupids and Sylphs; and I think it’s a 
shame only setting them down as the painters do 
in Thessalian groves, Elysian meadows, Hesperian 
gardens, or on Olympian heights. But you shall 
see my latest piece of extravagance.” 

“T shall be very pleased.” 

“Thought in my pictures is not a cold spirit 
that stands still and requires grasping by other 
spirit-thought, without which it is lifeless and 


loveless; a frozen mysticism, fantastic, dim; and 
dreamy; a warmth-yielding essence, maybe, but 


“Genius,” says Carlyle, , 


* 


4 
a 
ch 
- 
. 
" 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


needing the wooing of an outer warmth to give 
back glow for glow. My fancies rather spring 
upon one, at least they do upon me; quit their dead 
thralldom to live in our company, and, like cherish- 
ed memories of the long ago, live with us haunt- 
ingly.” 

Yes; she acknowledged the truth of it when the 
picture was unveiled before her, and the pretty 
pair*seemed to start to life and spring upon her, 
as might eager children yearning to be taken toa 
mother’s heart. Truly had he said the memories 
live with us hauntingly; and these, with their ex- 
quisite reality and passionate reminder, dwelt in 
her very heart. It was with deep interest that 
she heard his story of the coming and the go- 
ing, the flitting through the woods of doves, the 
idyllic romance fallen like an autumn poem, and 
how the bower of pine wood had now lost the 
power to charm. It was with new and singular 
emotion that her ladyship gazed upon the picture, 
forgetting all else in that spell of rekindled ma- 

*ternal love. <A flood of ruddy golden light; a 
luscious fruit-heavy languor of autumn days; the 
flutter of birds, the flash of butterflies, with wings 
like the fall of bejewelled leaves; mossed trunks 
of rare old apple-trees; the sun setting through 
the boughs like a flush of gems behind Italian 
vineyards; and a trellis of lovely flowers, which 
the artist never hesitated to throw in every where, 
altogether regardless of the unities; this was the 
picture, and there, reclining, were the children, 
not garbed after the precedent of to-day, but with 
as unwonted freedom as though come down from 
Zeuxis or Apelles. 

In her ladyship’s sleeping apartment, upon a 
small table near to the silk and lace curtains of 
her couch, were two articles dear beyond all price 
to their owner: a slender vase, white, beautiful, 
wherein some dead lilies, there since a tiny hand 
gathered them and set them therein beside her 
bed, to woo by this infantine delicacy a caress 
from the mother, insensible as marble then, but 
the shedder of passionate floods of tears before 
the emblem since. Somehow a fillet of autumn 
leaves seemed to encircle the vase while she look- 
ed upon it through her tears after that episode 
of the picture; and she opened a little book be- 
side it, a mere child’s picture-book, but God only 
knew how dear, between the leaves of which 

- were pressed pale primroses, and one little flower 
once blue as those pretty eyes that sought it, 
when one day it had been brought to her and laid 
lovingly upon her knee. 

And the painting haunted her, she could not 
tell why, but those lovely faces lingered as none 
had ever done before; and, for the first time in 
her life, she asked a favor— 

“Give me your painting.” 

He had no copy of it; it was dear to him; he 
loved those pretty ones it idealized; it was a strug- 
gle, parting with the valued piece of work, yet it 

» was like him to say, smilingly— 

‘With much pleasure.” 

Fair was the scene presented that night of the 
reception, and society was represented as it: alone 
is upon these exceptional occasions, when English 
girls and matrons bouquet themselves into glow- 
ing groups of color, with laughter just one note 
above a ripple, and conversation in that rich re- 
pose, the especial trait of the well-bred, or stroll 
the rooms with a grace that seems regulated by 
the music. Some of the old people make up a 


99 


kind of rubber in odd corners, remote from the 
music, where they talk scandal between the pass- 
ing of the notables. One or two of the dowagers 
gather their lace close and go quietly off to sleep, 
from which they awaken cold and cross, to com- 
plain that the harps seem sadly out of tune. The 
old lords sit stock-still, looking hard at one an- 
other, and discussing politics as though each were 
the presiding governor of a universe. The peo- 
ple who have been about are in full force, and 
tell graphically how their carriage broke down on 
one of the Apennine roads, of beirg overtaken by 
a great storm while driving from Geneva, or of 
the upset upon Lucerne ; how they had to shelter 
the last new travelling extravagance from Worth 
in a Bernese herdsman’s hut; and how the Bass 
was utterly undrinkable at a picnic outside Carls- 
ruhe. <A largeness of luxury and comfortable 
ease characterized these travelling records, the 
prevalent opinion being, as the cynical Comdar- 
lington preferred to put it, ‘‘ What on earth is the 
use of entering upon the fatigue of existence if 
things are not to be made comfortable for one ?” 
Testy old gentlemen are there, who love the coach- 
es and hate the railways. They are great cronies, 
and to this day treasure in old drawers high stocks, 
brass buttons, knee-breeches, and gaiters, believ- 
ing the good old times will return, and that they 
willdiein them. They invite to their rook-haunt- 
ed manorial acres with the large-hearted hospital- 
ity of fine old English gentlemen. They look out 
of place at this gay gathering, and when one of 
the new school scrutinizes them through,an eye- 
glass, much as Belzoni examined the venerable 
Egyptian beetles, they close up and proudly talk 
of the past. There is the inevitable coterie whose 
ideas are bounded by the course, and they are very 
conversational upon the race; they have Good- 
wood fresh in recollection ; they know a great deal 
of Goodwood, from its erection as a hunting-seat 
by the son of Charles the Second. They are loud 
in praise of the course, which they vote the finest 
in the kingdom, and the Park, with its stately 
cedars of Lebanon, to say nothing of the ornament- 
al woods upon the forty acres of grounds around 
the house. Their lady friends join with enthusi- 
asm in the praise, the recognized walk of our day 
possessing unrivalled fascination. There is an 
old duke who carelessly joins the Goodwood co- 
terie ; a prince upon turf, the father of his club, a 
spirit of old chivalrous days which lent to beauty 
its hand through cloud and sunshine, took its snuff 
from delicately porcelained trifles, and bowed to 
a woman but fought a man to the death for a slur 
on the honor of a friend. He will gracefully vie 
with a Lennox or a Berkeley in the point of an- 
ecdote, and will tell you the history of county 
sport from its founder downward; he is intimate 
with the origin of the great meetings, possesses 
records of 1710, when Parkhurst established Ep- 
som, and of 1727, when Ascot was popular with 
the Duke of Cumberland, and of 1776, when Col- 
onel St. Leger started the Doncaster. Farther 
back than these he has the story of venerable 
Newmarket, which Charles the Second, a liberal 
patron of the turf, supported in 1667. The Duke 
of Mainwaring, of the “ Four-in-hand Club,” is a 
recognized authority, and they listen to his pleas- 
ant chatter with polite attention. The duchess 
is there, and, next to Lady Lindon, is the most el- 
egant womaninthe rooms. Her ladyship is of ad- 
vanced years, but possessed of infinite majesty ; 


100 


ner silver hair imparts dignified beauty to a head 
that, in its day, was very haughtily borne, but now 
is surpassingly graceful without haughtiness. 
Naturally talk ran upon the coming lion, An 
aged lord, himself an author of past fame, bestowed 
a word. of praise upon this favorite of a later day. 
“That last book of his will live! Admirable! 
Your servant, my lady!” with the old Court bow 
while the duchess extended her hand, then shak- 
ing hands with the duke, tapping a massive snuff- 
box, a souvenir of some monarch: and while the 
two interchanged the old-school courtesy the duch- 
ess turned to a friend, and the ladies were soon 
discussing the possible and hoped-for coming of 
the popular preacher. An old lady near, with a 
Holbein-like complexion, and a fabric of lace, 
snow-drops, and diamonds hiding the scalp from 
the criticism of the irreverent, who had been calm- 
ly sleeping, hearing something about a minister, 
awoke in a tremor, murmuring one of the re- 
sponses in the Litany, evidently under the appre- 
hension that she had fallen asleep in church. 
The ideas concerning the institution known as 
Mr. Garland’s Church were curious; a prevailing 
conviction seemed to be that it was a beautiful 
sanctuary where little indiscretions were extracted 
from the éife, made into patchwork, and given to 
the poor; where perfumed gloves dallied with 
ivory-bound church services, or fans fluttered a 
sort of patronizing approval of the rhythmical 
measure in David’s Psalms; where delicate little 
bonbons might be taken from exquisite satin 
bags and sucked in concert with the music, while 
more energetic people stood up to sing; and where 
they could at leisure enjoy that rare and perfect 
gift of eloquence so distinctively their Minister’s. 
Every one quite expected a word and smile when 
he appeared upon this scene, and flowers nestling 
among lace upon quick-beating bosoms were sadly 
fluttered with expectancy. It was getting late; 
the queenly hostess cast anxious glances toward 
those doors whereby he would enter; Lady Com- 
darlington whispered to the Hon. Mrs. Glover, 
‘“‘Tf he doesn’t come, he shall be my ‘duck of a 
man’ no longer.” A terrible contingency that 
would, probably, have brought the Minister from 
the remotest ends of the earth. The Hon. Mrs. 
Glover was equally attached, but in a different 
way. As the champion of woman’s rights she ap- 
preciated the man who was known to be so tender 
and so true a friend to her sex. A sort of panic 
spread as time went on; he would not surely 
enter thus late. The enterprising Lord Leech 
told Lady Jane, his sister and coadjutor, that his 
opinion was the man was doing it to cause a sen- 
sation. ‘He is very vain, as you know, and most 
peculiar. I met an old lady once who positively 
assured me.she’d seen him drinking hot elder 
wine with an Italian peasant in the crater of Ve- 
suvius. For my part, I don’t believe in the fellow ; 
antecedents too doubtful.” ‘Excuse me,” said a 
voice near, with politeness, “her ladyship does 
not generally open her doors to those whose ante- 
cedents are not known and approved.” And as 
though having said no more than a passing com- 
pliment, Lord Ellerby glided. on, threading his 
way toward the entrance, where, unannounced 
and unassumingly, the lion had made his way 
through the crowd, and with a kind inclination of 
the head to people known to him, proceeded at 
once to pay his respects to her Jadyship, with a 
cordial grasp of thé hand for Lord Ellerby as he 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


passed. And hostess Empress Helen descended 
from her dais to him; met him half-way with 
graceful condescension. ‘‘ How good: of you!” 
she murmured. “I should have been here be- 
fore,” he explained, apologetically, “‘ but one of my 
poor people is terribly prostrate; it is doubtful if 
a messenger would have quite filled the province 
I have been happily engaged in.” ‘ And that?” 
“ Keeping the children quiet while the poor wom- 
an slept; there is so much in sleep.” “Ever 
charitable, how good you are! But I must not 
monopolize you, or my guests will be envious,” 
He bowed, she returned to her seat. There was a 
flutter of expectation. Where would he make for, 
which group favor with his notice? Straight 
across to that alcove in the wall, where sheltering 
curtains almost obscured the old Lord Darrel. 
Not so obscured but that his tender eye detected 
him, understood it; and before the courtly crowd 
he crossed over, warmly took the thin hand no 
one had taken, seated himself beside the nobleman 
society had ignored, and with soft pleasantness 
of manner sought to woo his interest by conversa- 
tion. Society shrugged its shoulders, sincerely 
pitying his taste. Lady Lindon turned a degree 
paler; the action to her afforded a severe re- 
proach. Wits and beauties alike were much put 
out; old dowagers were of opinion it indicated 
plebeian origin, and the extreme superficiality of 
his gifts. The Earl of Comdarlington looked with 
astonishment.at the pair through his glass, and 
muttering, ‘‘ Good gracious! ’Pon honor now!” 
finically pursued his fragrant way. Lord Darrell’s 
appreciation of the Minister’s notice was excess- 
ive. The latter remained a very short time, but 
devoted the best part of it to the slighted noble- 
man. 
—_———»—_ —— 


CHAPTER XXYV. 


AT HAWKINGDEAN—LIFE IN A DOWNLAND 
VILLAGE. 


Wiruatrn a hollow of the South Downs nestles a 
quaint little village of perfect Arcadian type. An 
old-world, dream-life sort of place, with red 
brick cottages showing well the roofs Mr. Ruskin 
deems so essential to a picture, and having much 
drapery of ivy and other creepers lustrous ac- 
cording to the season; with great clustering of 
foliage, shrubs, and evergreens, and all down the 
village street a line of wide-spreading trees, be- 
tween which peep the small shops with breaks of 
a farm or two, and at the end a church; and with 
the beautiful amphitheatre of downland, ridges 
of chalk, the close clean turf, flocks, and their 
shepherds dozing the idle hours away. Near by 
the church stands a large rambling old place that 
seems to have weathered many a generation of 
pastors and peopie. It is the parsonage, just the 
resting-place a peace-loving, humble-minded serv- 
ant of the Cross might rejoice in, all the air about 
it breathing of devotion and brotherly love. 
Within were large and lofty chambers; but some 
of these, as the long years rolled by, became so 
crowded with literary treasures—volumed minds 
of long ago—that their space was largely taken 
up and filled and stocked with comfortable-look- 
ing lines of books wooing one confidently to many 
an hour’s quiet study. The owner of this fair 
domain is an old man of stately mien, white-hair- 
ed, benign, gentle of manner, considerate of all, 


rs igen Rss PRC Spa ad 


. 


- 
‘ 


oe 


- dawn-time of her teens. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


A generation has he labored in this still sphere, 
his youth and ardor cooling with the years, until 
now the life is a calm, the service a repose. He 
is much revered and loved in the village; he had 
known these big and brawny Soytherners as ba- 
bies, had seen those tall women when pretty-toed 
paddlers on yonder beach, but he had seen little 
change in the ancient downs, and none in stick 
or stone of the quiet village. 

Roaming for violets one comes upon it un- 
awares; sheltered in the cleft of the weald, it 
seems to have retreated hither from the vain 
world, and to be as innocent of the proximity of 
that gay town and courtly vanity fair, the metrop- 
olis of the hills, as though still with the Druids 
who once held their mystic rites above here. 

How the important marts of change and com- 
merce get along it is impossible to tell. When 
decrease will set in amidst the piles of apples and 
bottles of bull’s-eyes it would be rash to predict. 


, The ploughshare young of the district certainly 
- make a flutter occasionally, and Hobnails and 


Clumps from the wide tracts of pasture here lay in 
store for their lonely watching. But these are not 
all. Round a pond, under the willows, at a sharp 
angle, as if protecting the retreat from invasion, is 
stationed the smithy, the awe-inspiring delight of 
the urchins, who (coming from school over the 
neighboring hill) congregate at the porch, and gaze 
timorously in at the Titan. The clink from the 
anvil is the only sound awakening echo in the 
village, save when some wagon goes lumbering 
onward to one of the adjoining homesteads. 
Fallen among nettles, symbolic of progress in the 
village, are several old wheels, and the connective 
trade of a wheelwright is illustrated. The grocery 
and drapery dépot is quaint and original: it would 
be easy, although it would not be kind, to poke 
fun at the window and doorway where Hoyle’s 
prints and dips struggle for vantage. The little 
store is accommodating to the cottagers; and as 


’ for the gentry—well, the gentry did not deal there 


in olden times, and now the ledger under the 
greasy counter has no open account with families 
of distinction. | 

These consist of the farmers aforesaid, and the 
dwellers in three or four villa cottages, a stuccoed, 
five-window residence that seems to have strayed 
from Croydon and got lost, a manor-house of Tudor 


- build, and the old mansion known as the Moated 


Grange. The manor-house lies ahead of the vil- 
lage, screened by the downs, and looking right 
away to sea from lofty upper windows; it is cir- 


cled by a belt of trees once rook-haunted. <A 
strange man lives here—a scholar, a student of 


stars, a lover of nature, a disciple of books; one 
who walks long reaches of the downland looking 
upon these olden sweeps of hillock with great 
love, by starlight and by sunlight a lonely, in- 


‘wrapped wanderer; sometimes, however, accom- 


panied by his little daughter, a pretty child in the 
The silent man and this 
fair young creature were in high repute with the 
peasantry, whose wants it was their pleasure to 
supply. The dark old house secluded in its trees 
was looked upon with that touching love, seldom 
found in England, but frequently in France, where 
some shadowy old chateau patron-saints the vil- 
lage. The rural poor of the Downland resemble 
their kind across the Channel in a blind sort of 
reverence for the priest and the scholar. -A vol- 
ume is a sealed mystery held in due awe, while a 


101 


student with his book is the incarnation of the 
Dweller upon the Threshold. In the village we 
tell of the man with the book was paramount. 
The very swaying of the trees about his shadowy 
castle had an occult thoughtfulness. Owls had 
supplanted the more romantic rooks. At night, 
when all else was dark from end to end of the 
valley, timid little ones peeping from their cots 
saw a light at the big house where a lonely man 
sat writing, and they loved it, grew to look for it, 
and because it was ever there it became, despite 
the denser shadow of the trees, their faith, their 
polar star. The man had lived long in this village 
before the prattler came to spell a new and softer 
science, and now the girl had grown to splendid 
health by nurture of the Downs, life of these hills 
drawn in from the first toddling of her tiny feet. 
Sometimes the student, walking down the slope, 
would meet the pastor toiling slowly up, his white 
curls blowing hither and thither, and the good 
shepherd would pat the little golden fleece and 
call her the lamb of all his flock, whereat the 
father would glance half fondly from his book, 
and with his usual abstraction murmur— 

“Nay, friend, mine, thank God, and the air on 
these good hills.” 

And then he would turn to the book again, while 
the child, who must love something other than 
iron erudition, clung to the pillar of the church, 
which much pleased the patriarch, who would 
stoop, with wondrous tenderness, glancing half 
enviously at the man with knit brows, who caught 
his meaning as those in dreams catch strange 
fancies. 

“You love children ?—ah !—our Saviour com- 
manded—about 160, Hipparchus it was, preces- 
‘sion of equinoxes—so—lost myself. Fine child, 
Sir, and mine, my very own! Ptolemy determined 
distances, don’t you think so? Not a question 
but was known to the Arabs; so—taking your 
constitutional? Good, but no book—you are 
welcome to this, old friend; there is much mar- 
row init. Nay,I shall not need it; Iam bound 
for home.” 

Another time when they crossed paths the old 
man commented on her tenuity, and the father, 
looking from out the past, said thoughtfully, while 
trifling with the scattered tresses— 

“Ah! her mother was delicate, very; I never 
saw much of her, but it struck me she was deli- 
cate; she went off rather suddenly. If memory 
serves me, I was deeply engaged at the time on 
aberration of light of fixed stars; gave me a deal 
of thought—up there a long time—saw something 
—imagine she passed me. Beg pardon, take little 
one home? ‘Thanks, no; she never leaves me; I 
hope never will.” 

The pastor always walked on after these en- 
counters with a placid gentleness that well became 
the venerable man, but beneath which the close 
observer might have detected a certain grave so- 
| licitude which would have aroused speculation. 

The silent, secluded scholar had found it well 
to have his little one always with him ; had come 
down from his stars, and up from his old dead 
writers, and off from his vast solitude of down- 
land, to the fresh beauty of the fairy prattler, and 
it was well: that small thing kept human the 
heart so cobwebbed by learning. She grew up to 
be the light of the great grim house and garden. 
In the village the humble folks looked for her 
coming as for the good genius of their lot, and 


102 


many a sly admiring glance was watching the pret- 
ty form on the hill during those quiet walks. 

Although secluded and removed by position and 
station, the lonely master of the Bishop’s House 
(it was called the Bishop’s House, owing to the 
amiable Edmund Bonner having here resided) was 
in no degree of proud or forbidding nature; his 
courtesy was kingly, extended alike to the moneyed 
parvenu located there for the air, and to the la- 
borer on the land, for whom there was ever a word 
of dreamy kindness. Perhaps no one realized the 
advantage of so worthy a neighbor more than the 
pastor, who enjoyed the privilege of entering the 
large library at will and of adding to his goodly 
store of tomes by occasional loans of exceptional 
volumes. He would drop in about every other 
morning (no one else ever visited the recluse) with- 
out ceremony, as desired by the master, content 
to find the little daughter playing in the garden 
or sitting by the fire. At such times something 
like this would happen. 

“Well, lady-bird, waiting for another game at 
ball? Here goes, then. Ah! you now throw too 
high for me; let’s run and see who catches it.” 

A race; little one always victor, and such glee. 
A lozenged lattice, ever so high, would open, and 
pale papa looking out to chide, but seeing the pas- 
tor, would just call down, 

“Morning! Very busy; you’ll excuse my com- 
ing down? Book or two on the study-table you'll 
like.” : 

And the window would be shut severely, like a 
clattering protest of the glass against levity, after 
which they were quieter, went off to the arbor or 
elsewhere, and made crowns with laurel leaves 
and other dainty work, while the old man wove 
the spell of fairy lore. But that face would come 
to the high window again and again restlessly, as 
unable to summon resolution to descend and play 
with the child, yet jealous of another doing so; 
wondering what had become of them, looking 
longingly down on the garden, yet shuddering at 
thought of the noise they made. Then the stu- 
dent would descend, his hands clasped on a book 
behind his dressing-gown, eyes heavy with last 
night’s vigil, a staid and measured gait, but cor- 
dial outholding of the hand to his friend. 

Upon one of these occasions, when the child 
had grown to be a big girl entering upon the first 
of her teens, the pastor came with a piece of news ; 
and as it was but once in a decade that such was 
gathered in the village, much was made of the 
startling rumor. A charming cottage, long un- 
tenanted, was let at last. A widow lady and her 
son had driven over from Brighton, had been pre- 
possessed by the flower-clustered home, and had 
taken it. To the pastor, to whom every house 
was like a living being, this was an event of im- 
portance ; but the scholar heard and soon forgot, 
when deep in the books and distant with the dead. 
Not so the girl, to whom it was scarcely less in- 
teresting than to the pastor, and whose sympathies 
were quickly aroused when her friend dwelt on 
the lady-like yet sad grace of the new tenant, and 
the pretty manners and gentle speech of her son. 

The cottage was prepared, the pastor himself 
often looking in and giving a hint here and there 
conducive to the comfort of the coming inmates. 

The humble but well-bred occupants arrived 
upon the appointed day. Of course the village 
stood on the door-step, and worthy dames stared 
as they had not done since a real huntsman gal- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


loped through. A keen watch was set all day 
between the bottles of sticky sweets, and boot and 
stay laces were clustered thicker to admit of a 
peephole for espionage. The smith dropped a 
hoof, a thing unknown since his apprentice days, 
The sexton cast his sharp ferret eyes over his 
muslin blind, and set to calculating the length 
of the widow. The farmers’ men touched hats 
with rough courtesy, and their masters eyed the 
handsome, anxious face of the mother with kind- 
ly deference. - The farmers’ daughters slipped on 
their garden hats, and took baskets strangely near 
the pathway palings in quest of straggling roses; 


The village children, grouped, finger in mouth; | 


seemed transfixed. The aged, basking in the 
sun flooding their porches, invoked a blessing upon 
the lady who, they read with instinct rather than 
dim eyes, had passed through the ordeal of woe. 

The pastor, with infinite thoughtfulness, re- 
ceived them in the porch, and the lady’s mourn- 
ful eyes lighted with gratitude at the mark of so- 


ciable attention; but that no misunderstanding © 


might arise, she respectfully informed him that 
they were Dissenters. He would have preferred 
it otherwise, but took it comfortably, merely re- 
marking there was no place of Congregational 


‘worship nearer than Brighton, a great inconven- 


ience, and any time when they cared to drop in 
at the church, his pew was at their disposal. He 
was none the less kind and courtly, and was re- 
warded sometimes upon wet days by seeing the 
pair the most reverent of all his flock. This was 
preferable to the course adopted by the master 
of the Bishop’s House, who never went any 
where. 

As time passed it was remarked that the new 
tenants were very retiring. Poor, they lived with 
economy; it was not convenient to receive people 
back again, so they did not visit; even the pastor’s 
kindly invitation to tea was declined, with thanks 
that were deep but diffident. 


The boy, like his mother, was possessed of much * 


delicate beauty. Her husband, a Congregational 
minister worked to death, left nothing but this 
pale, thoughtful boy of some thirteen years; the 
mother’s slender income was their sole support. 

The pastor spoke of them at the Bishop’s 
House, and the student came off Copernicus, 
heard, and forgot the next moment; but Golden- 
hair, who had more earth than stars in her com- 
position, became curious. 

Strolling upon the downs one day, reading as 
usual, our student nearly walked over a lady sit- 
ting upon a camp-stool. He apologized. “So ab- 
stracted—ten thousand pardons—get absorbed in 
book ; dear me—yourson? Surely my neighbors 
—very glad to have met you—good- morning, 
good-morning.” Then, turning back after a few 
paces, to the lazy boy risen abashed from the 
sward, “Run in my house whenever agreeable— 
books you may like—it will be dull here after the 
town! Morning, your servant, madam!” raising 
the old worn felt hat with the grace of the an- 
cienne noblesse. - 

They each thought differently of him; the lady 
reading austere sensitiveness in the nature, the 
boy a majesty of learning compensating for any 
sign of brusqueness. The bent form became 
distant on the ridge of hills, ever the same brood- 
ing intentness, the same rapt departure from sur- 
roundings; the gaunt form stood on the rim of 
the circle before descending the slope; the sea, 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


108 


the sky, infinitude, and that singular form in | carefully, my darling, and request the girls to see 


relief. 

“How the man must have suffered!” said the 
lady to herself. ‘That is no mere love of learn- 
ing; rather the refuge to which he has flown 
wounded.” 

“What are you thinking of, mamma?” asks 
the boy, stretched again lazily upon the grass, 
sunset flushing a lance-like bloom upon his cheeks. 

“That, after all, we may be dull here. I am 
not sure that it is well for you.” 

“But our kind friend has proposed a remedy, 
dear. What books there must be in that old 
place! Let us call, mamma.” 

And he gained his point, as usual; poor fragile 
refuser, with nothing in all the world to love save 
this young pleader, and he was her world! 

The boy was so enamored of reading that he 
would not allow a day to elapse without accepting 
the gracious invitation, and something told him 
these abstracted ones are apt to forget permis- 
sions. 

The servant conducted the visitor to the study, 
vacant at the time, but to which came Golden- 
hair, with considerable confidence, to see what the 
boy was like; he might be ill some day, and she 
have to carry jellies to the cottage; and she found 
him like—very like—a dim poetic sort of ideal 
she had taken the trouble to conceive when mix- 
ing with the shock-headed youngsters of her 
sphere of usefulness. A trifle shy, perhaps, but 
that was becoming, and she had no ideal of a bold 
boy; he must be gentle of manner, soft of tone, 
tender of touch; her brusque papa had proved 
sufficient acquaintance with the other school. 
She did not know what to say, so said— 

“JT hope your mamma will like our village.” 

Whereat the boy, who always spoke the truth, 
replied with innocent candor— 

“Mamma does not like villages. Weare here 
because, being poor, we can live cheaper; neither 
does mamma like Sussex, but poor papa labored 
in the county, and mamma will not leave it; he 
loved it.” 

“Now, my papa hates every place alike; isn’t 
that dreadful? Except on the top of those 
windy old hills, and there he seems all right.” 

The boy came to think the girl very winning, 
and the village seemed less dull already when seen 
by the light of this fair young face. Soon they 
were good friends enough, and her playful words 
awoke that smile none ever could resist—the old, 
wonderful smile that, upon the face of his poor 
dead father, had won the people, making the Word 
_ seem sweeter from those lips. And Golden-hair 
smiled back, when a footstep approached, and the 
master, with his pale lined face, stood in the door- 
way, a roll of manuscripts in his hand, a book 
under his arm, and stooping slightly. 

Eying the two from below the shaggy brows 
he muttered— 

“ Been here long ?” . 

The salutation was abrupt, but the boy was not 
taken aback; and answered, quietly and with much 
respect— ; ; 

“J have but just come, Sir. My mother’s com- 
pliments, and she trusts you will forgive the liber- 
ty of my calling.” 

“ Ah, certainly; I'm not partial to callers—hate 
’em; but, if I remember aright, I said you could 
just look in. You'd like a book or two? Vio- 
let, child, you can run and play. Close the door 


| 


1 


to that kitchen door; it jars the whole house. 
They fancy my nerves were made by the smith,” 


‘to the visitor, while Violet retired with a little ex- 


pression of regret and admiring adieu glances, 

The skeleton knees of the scholar knocked to- 
gether; he sat back in a high carved chair, clutch- 
ing at the dressing-gown with convulsive move- 
ment; his actions. were expressively suggestive 
of unrest and disquiet. He turned to the boy 
standing by the table. 

“Fond of reading ?” 

“Very, Sir; my father was a great reader, and . 
taught me to love books. He used to say they 
would, through life, prove my best and truest 
friends.” 

The answer seemed to please the student, who 
looked at the speaker with new interest. 

“So your father liked books? Poor devil! 
And you take after him? Sorry for you; give it 
up—take to the plough, counter, desk. Look at 
these people’s rosy cheeks about here; no books, 
Sir. The happiest-going are those without 
minds.” 

Spite of this severe advice, the white hand was 
unconsciously patting the volumes strewn about 
the table with a movement more significant than 
any expressed fondness. At this moment a door 
somewhere interior closed smartly; the master 
bounded with a cry—“ Bless me!—curse of my 
life that door-banging. I like the hills—no 
doors !” 

The boy began to feel slightly uncomfortable 
and nervous himself; he edged a little away from 
the table. 

“ Be careful—hat going to tumble!” 

The visitor placed his hat in a secure position, 
and the master, as if coming from out a reverie, 
continued— 

“Father something in the preaching way, I 
think ?” 

“‘ A minister, Sir,” with cheeks all crimson for 
the honor of the dead darling, tremulous cadence, 
downeast eyes, and a shadow upon the beautiful 
features. 

The bookworm noticed it all, but went on with 
his withering cynicism. The boy was creeping 
into his heart; he would have none of it, and 
posted sentinels to guard the musty hermit- 
niche. 

“T suppose, looking after other people’s souls, 
he neglected his own body—more fool he! Cler- 
gy want to be web-footed and rhinoceros-skinned 
in parish districts. Pray be careful with your 
elbow there, or that book will be down; know 
nothing worse than the crashing down of a big 
book ; besides, it’s sacrilege !” 

The visitor removed his elbow from its dan- 
gerous proximity with such meek subjection that 
the scholar was touched in spite of himself, but 
he routed the momentary weakness. 

“Hope you are not going to walk up that path 
always when you go out” (this was the one path 
of the ascent in view of the windows); ‘“‘it fidgets 
one; and if you read you'll crawl up like a snail.” 

The boy smiled, and very sweetly expressed 
his willingness to avoid the path indicated. The 
smile sank like a sunbeam, and the old man went 
after it with a pick and rooted it out, flayed it, 
trampled it, quenched it. He was not going to give 
way to the weaknesses of other frivolous folk, 
fickle-minded, empty-headed; he looked as sour 


¢ 


104 


as it was possible to look, and just nipped that 
smile like a frost. 

Rising from his high-backed throne, he nodded 
to a vast array of crammed book-shelves. 

“Take any of them—bring back when read, 
and exchange for others—if—if the study is va- 
cant.” This with a narrow lightning glance that 
caused the stranger to wince, although it would 
have been difficult to tell why. 

“The lady with you yesterday your mother, I 
presume? Don’t know much of mothers, but 
suppose she’s proud of you. Tell her I counsel 
giving up all such foolish nonsense ; you’re neither 
better nor worse than other sons, and are likely 
to become rather worse.’ 

Although startled, the boy manifested no an- 
noyance at the tone adopted by his host. Looking 
up in the rigid face with a mute forgiveness, he 
was about to rise for departure, when— 

‘* You'll mind the chair doesn’t creak if you’re 
going to get up; it’s horrible! Next to the un- 
earthly clatter of fire-irons, I know of nothing 
more irritating.” 

The boy arose with ev: ery care, so softly never 
a sound was heard; then the scholar muttered— 

“I do hate that cat-like movement! It’s just 
how the girls go about the house; one never knows 
when one’s coming upon them or where they’ll 
turn up next—keeps one in‘a state of chronic 
nervousness.” 

He strode the chamber, still convulsively clutch- 
ing at his gown; then, with a gasp, he confronted 
the boy, who receded a step. 

“T wish you’d break yourself of that smile you 
have. I can’t bear people always smiling; it’s a 
senseless habit. All very well during some play- 
house comedy, but in private life it’s frivolity, Sir, 
frivolity!” The smile died away, but the same 
pleasant look remained, as though irradiating from 
within, The scholar softened a shade. ‘I was 
going to say, take your mother a few flowers from 
the garden—no message, mind; messages are ri- 
diculous, and—and—tell her it spoils a landscape 
sitting about on camp-stools—knew. there was 
something I wanted to say—try the sea line, more 
healthy.” 

At this moment the singular man swooped down 
upon a piece of ribbon, a bow of Violet’s; he 
caught. and clutched it fiercely, the talon-like 
fingers meeting upon the relic, while he muttered 
to himself. Thrusting it in one of the pockets of 
his gown, he turned sharply, saying— 

““Good-morning!”” Marching with jerky ab- 
ruptness to the door, which he opened as in a 
house of the dead, and with a rattling sort of glid- 
ing passed to the passage, and to the breakfast- 
room, where his girl sat on a hassock by the fire 
dressing adoll. He stood on the hearth- rug, erect 
in his woven glow of hap-hazard color, while she 
looked up in his face wistfully, yearning fora smile 
where never a smile shone. 

“You like your doll as much as ever, eh ?” 

There was something so inexpressibly solicitous 
she was surprised at the new interest, and arose, 
twining arms about the cold, gaunt, loveless 
man. 

‘Quite, papa dear! 
know.” 

“Don’t romp about as you used,” grumbled the 
oldman; “no running onthe landing, and up and 
down stairs.” 

“You said you couldn’t bear the noise, papa.” 


Tm a little girl still, you 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Ah! Did I? .I’'d forgotten. Like the old 
colored picture-books still, Violet ?” 
“Oh yes, papa. I shall always love the dear 


‘| old pictures.” 


At that he turned upon her surly as a bear. 

“Nothing was said about love, I believe; ‘not 
aware I mentioned the word.” 

‘*“T’m sure, papa, I—” 

“Nonsense! Ridiculous, applying the word to 
books!” (This from the man that had been all 
love for the books, and for the books alone.) “ Do 
you know why I removed from London, child, 
while you were but demi-folio, so to speak? It 
was to live quiet; vehicles jarred upon me, boys 
and girls jarred upon me, men and women jarred 
upon me, and now the quiet retreat I’ve buried 
myself inis to berun over by atroop. The village 
ought to have a fence round; I wish I’d bought 
that tumble-down cottage. But rare editions get 
to such a price, and run up so, I haven’t a pound 
to spare unnecessarily—you’ll have those fire-irons 
down if you don’t mind; of all discords on God’s 
earth there’s nothing comes up to the clatter of 
poker and tongs.” Here the master paused to 
ring the bell violently, and upon the appearance 
of a sphinx-like domestic, he grumbled— 

“There’s a door outside—stable or wash-house 
—creaking like the gibbet; have it off the hinges. 
And the old spout above this window, jangle and 
drip, jangle and drip; there is nothing, I do think, 
comes up to an old water-spout for giving one the 
horrors. That'll do. I think you’ve your fingers 
entangled in my girdle, Violet—it’s jerking me; 
I can’t bear to be jerked—where was I? Oh, 
going to say, don’t use the study ; no books there 
to interest you; dull room, and carpet gone thread- 
bare from the traffic; keep out, there’s a good 
girl!” and he patted her much in the graceful 
fashion of an Esquimau patting his reindeer, and 
trotted his bony frame round the tabie, and out 
at the door, and up the great gloomy stairs to the 
den, heavy and dim, above. . A fire was burning 
in the grate; he drew up a chair, as though about 
to cleave it asunder, then shivered and shrank at 
his own noise,-and finally planted the slipper 
soles on the top bar, staring in the fire and mut- 
tering, until two fiend coals portrayed the faces 
of that boy and girl, when he sledged back as 
though wolf-bitten, and swung over to the lattice, 
which he thrust apart, and pushed his head out 
for the cool reviving air, and saw below that very 
boy and girl a-gathering pompons. 

He just lifted one of his volumes—a book of 
medium bulk—and sent it swift at curly-head, who 
was bending gallantly to the proffered bunch of 


red and white buttons, and would have crunched it ~ 


like a snail, but that mathematics overweighted 
and fell flat to the gravel; whereon he regretted 
adding worse to bad, for the book was precious, 
but being the largest to hand, impulse had can- 
noned. 

Then he rang the bell furiously, and scoured 
over to the window again, to find his youthful 
lordship turning over the leaves of that volume 
with evident interest, and thinking, no doubt, it 
had been graciously dispatched, according to cus- 
tom of the country, for his especial edification. 
He looked up to the irate face, smiled the fair 
smile again, lifted his cap of seal-skin with win- 
ning grace, gleaned up the pompons, and disap- 
peared, with the book under his arm. Vanished, 
with such a chronicle for the pale lady mother, 


_ s  . 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


who took the head of curls between her hands, 
and looked wistfully down to the depth of eyes. 
The curls tossed a little under the scrutiny, but 
she held the fair brow fivm. 

‘Look at me; up in my face, love.” 

He was in her favorite attitude, upon a hassock 
at her feet. He looked up candidly enough. 

“Do you feel inclined to go to the great house 
very often, my boy ?” 

“No, mamma, Why?” 

“T fancied, from the warmth of your descrip- 
tion, that the attraction was great.” 

He colored at that, but answered wisely— 

“‘T am fond of flowers, and fonder still of books ; 
you know it, dear,” looking reproachfully. — 

‘“‘T should feel glad for you to find both else- 
where.” 

“Why, mamma, I was only thinking, while walk- 
ing home, of the boon our neighbor’s kindness 
had opened up to us; but if you are unwilling, I 
will never go near the place again.” 

“There spoke my own brave boy! Thanks, 
darling.: You know I have but you in all the 
world; let us keep to one another, and in each 
other’s love and companionship experience the 
enjoyment of old. We are. poor, but I will con- 
trive to spare something from the housekeeping 
to procure you books; our little garden shall be gay 
with these‘late blossoms. From what you tell me 
of the owner of yonder mansion, I believe he far 
from welcomes your intrusion; he invited you 
upon the impulse of the moment; you see how 
painfully impulsive he is ; such men are very kind 
—unthinkingly; even hospitable—unconsciously ; 
but equally sensitive, morbidly so, and in after- 
thought inclined to regret expressions their ex- 
citable nature dictated. You have not gone too 
far to recede. There, there, my boy, you are not 
sorry because I have spoken? Kiss me, and let 
your mother stand before the strangers. We will 
return these books by the good pastor; he will 
oblige us by presenting our thanks and apology ; 
he is very good.” 

The old man looked in during the afternoon, 
just to see how they were getting on, he said, with 
pleasant cordiality. The lady was up stairs dress- 
ing; her son made way by the fire for the welcome 
visitor. After greeting— 

‘“‘ Well, Sir, and how do you like our learned 
patron ?” 

“Not much,” answered the boy, with refresh- 
ing candor. 

“Ah! you think him dry and unsociable; it 
comes of living alone with the old books.” 

“Not quite alone.” 

“So, so; thinking of lady-bird ?” 

’The boy moved restlessly, half angrily, then 
bowed. 

“Tf the little girl can not make him sociable, I 
think nobody can. He really wants pelting with 
love and attention. Mamma doesn’t approve, or 
I’d do it myself.” 

The pastor looked in mute astonishment upon 
the youthful knight. 

“You think he needs wooing from his books.” 
Then, with a sly twinkle, “I understand ; you want 
to get upon more intimate footing, and I am to 
manage it. Is it not so?” 

“Quite the reverse; we intended trespassing 
upon your kindness to the extent of asking you to 
favor us by returning these books.” : 

The visitor looked chagrined at that, but made 


105 


no further comment, for the lady at the moment 
entered, elegant in quiet afternoon:attire. 

“‘T hope you are well to-day, my dear madam 2?” 
extending a hand brown with garden work and 
gloveless expeditions on the downs. 

‘Yes, thank you, and invigorated by your bra- 
cing air already.” 

‘‘Our friend of the Bishop’s House speaks high- 
ly of the air.” 

The lady bowed, almost coldly, not to be drawn 
into talking of that saturnine personage. The 
young gentleman poked the fire. The pastor 
coughed, thinking he did not understand Dissent- 
ers. The lady volunteered upon the once-for-all 
principle, but with such sweet composure that it 
disarmed surprise. 

“You will quite understand that when we took 
this little place we were indifferent to our neigh- 
bors ; we would remain so still, The family you 
allude to are no more to us than the fishers in the 
miserable cottages on the outskirts of your village ; 
not so much, in fact.” \ 

“Bless my soul!’ murmured the conservative 
divine, bringing his hand down upon the clerical 
broadcloth like a veritable father of the church 
and the state. 

‘“‘T have had enough to do with literary and in- 
tellectual people,” continued the lady, “‘ to know 
that they shun intrusion and avoid strangers. 
Your friend’s manners and messages prove him no 
exception. We, on our part, are unable to return 
hospitality ; our means will not admit of it. We 
also like to be very quiet and to keep to ourselves ; 
therefore you will appreciate my seeming uncouth- 
ness, and pardon that which is so suggestive of 
ingratitude.” : 

The old man bowed, then, with a pleasant 
smile— 

“ At all events you will permit me to call now 
and then, to see if I can serve you in any 
way ?” 

She extended her hand, so glad he had not taken 
offense. Turning to her boy— 

“ Run and fetch poor papa’s portrait from my 
room, dear!’ and he went, on the instant, and 
had no sooner gone than she hastily confided— 

“He is growing—there is.a girl—the child al- 
ready interests him ; quite natural, I know, but I 
would guard him from it. Neither your friend nor 
I can afford to lose our darlings.” 

And he understood, replying by a look that 
made them friends for life. 

He soon returned with the portrait of poor 
papa. Only a photograph taken one day when 
he had felt so weak and ill, that he feared lest 
the tired life should vanish and no shadow be 
left them, neglecting meanwhile the dinner his 
faithful wife had been so careful to enjoin he 
should not forget. 

It was a characteristic study, the old Episco- 
palian gingerly handling the card, looking upon 
the broad forehead and handsome features of the 
talented, unpaid, unencouraged one, whose fair 
promising life had consumed itself upon its altar ; 
then looking over the rim of his glasses, and 
catching the eyes of the boy so like, and that 
wonderful smile so precious to the mother who 
treasured smiling days as jewel-studded, made 
note of in the pages of a poor little shilling diary, 
repeated year by year, and growing fewer and 
fewer as the living face formed and grew like to 
the dead. 


106 


The pastor took the books himself in the even- 
ing, after tea. 

The student sat near a green-shaded lamp, 
writing on days far back in past centuries. The 
pastor opened the door softly ; then finding it un- 
heard (not a door of the Bishop’s House made a 
noise upon opening), and seeing the master so in- 
tently engaged, retreated, closing it with equal 
softness, and made for that cozy little room where 
Violet sat alone, as usual, drawn up to the fire, 
but happy with her cat and work. The charm 
of this picture following so closely upon the grim 
and studious interior he had just left vividly im- 
pressed the quiet a har who stood enjoying it 
some few minutes before speaking. The soft light 
of a lamp shed a halo about the tresses not yet 
turned, like the leaves, to sober coloring. Stoop- 
ing above the work, her beauty had never seemed 
of more gentle mould; its fresh color, wooed forth 
of the fire, settling like a bloom that one feared 
must vanish from the cheek were the graceful 
head to lift; the dark eyelashes being a foil of 
shading in symmetry with the lines of thought. 

“T would not disturb your papa, and came to 
you first, Fairy. Are you quite well, little one?” 

“Very well, thank you, and so glad you are 
come! Papa has been at that horrid writing ever 
since tea-time. Do you know, I sometimes think 
I will hide all his papers. Now tell me the news. 
Is little Tommy Styles better of his cold? And 
did poor old Mrs..Muggeridge like the honey? 
And how—is—the—lady—at the cottage ?” 

“ Getting settled, Violet, thank you ; and Dame 
Styles desires her very grateful thanks, and Tom- 
my is decidedly better of his cold.” 

“Were — the — pompons — liked?” Ske was 
busy, bent over a refractory knot, and tugged 
that wool as though to stretch it from thence 
away to Berlin. And the pastor watched the 
operation with a curious expression, coming closer 
and stooping with a hand on each knee; and she 
knew, and the little fingers fumbled more awk- 
wardly still. At last, feeling foolishly confused, 
she ventured to look up, and meeting the kind, 
inquiring eyes of him more father than her own, 
just sprang into the open arms and buried her 
blushes in his beard. 

“Naughty girl!’ came very kindly, while he 
patted the tresses. “To be fluttered about a few 
pompons! Yes, they are liked, and are in the 
best vases; let that content thee. And now I am 
going to tell you a very brief fairy-tale; you have 
not had one for a long time. Don’t you remem- 
ber the winter evening stories of last year ?” 

“Yes; the dear old stories!” And the girl 
clasped her hands, looking thoughtfully into the 
fire as though one or other of them had come 
true since then. 

“‘ Ay, there was one I never told. I waited a 
seasonable opportunity; it is frosty to-night, and 
the time will do. There was a girl, Violet, who 
lived away in a flower village amidst the hills, and 
her papa was chief noble of the country-side. 
They lived in an old chateau beyond the village 
a little, and where the road wound onward to the 
coast. A stern, proud, and scholarly man, this 
was his dream—to live apart from the false and 
fickle world, and devote his days to books and 
the culture of his daughter. His love for her 
passed fathoming, it was so deep and sacred; yet 
his nature, taciturn and reserved, never betrayed 
the secret, and the most critical of their neigh- 


| meal. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


bors never dreamed that the stern man loved his 
girl with any such wondrous passion. It came to 
pass that strangers from the city of the hills came 
to dwell within the village. A vacant chalet al- 
most under foliage of the trees girting the lordly 
pile was their humble home: a lady and her son, 
a mere boy, but well-favored, and seeming all the 
more so in a little village where uncomely faces 
of the country-folk were all to look on year by 
year.” 

He felt a trembling at his knee, and the small 
fingers creeping upward to his shoulder, but ney- 
er a word was spoken. He went on, merciless ; 
doing this for his old friend, who he knew could 
never have done it for himself. 

“Well, Violet, the girl saw these, and was at- 
tracted by the ruddy beauty and clustering curls 
of the boy, and still more by the courteous ways 
which, acquired of town life and the schools, and 
aided by grace that came of gentle parentage, 
were likely to entrap the thoughts of such as her. 
And as the days went on she grew to think still 
more of one who, at a change of scene, would 
quite forget her. Papa, with breaking heart, re- 
marking less of love for him, would muse on it 
fretting, but saying.no word of all his fears to 
her. You are a big girl, dear, now, and have 
read in the old romances of a sweetmeat stuff 
the young amuse themselves with in “idle hours 
called Love ; a mischievous thing it is, and desti- 
tute alike of sense and reason. So this girl of 
my story went knocking her head against that 
stupidness, and thought it mighty fine, I doubt 
not; but a fairy, who loved this little lady, stepped 
upon the scene, and made a picture pass before 
her eyes, of a ’sleek and lovely tiger, with soft 
and fawning ways, crouching to be admired; and 
of herself passing with papa, who tried to hold 
her back, but from whom she broke away to pat 
and caress that tiger, which turned and gobbled 
her up, and stole off to lie in wait for a similar 
But this was not all, for it caused the death 
of poor papa, who could not live without his 
darling.” 

The attentive listener drew a long breath, look- 
ing into the clear coals, at the moral, maybe; 
then just turned to wind arms around the story- 
teller’s neck. 

And in the study. 

No sooner had the door closed upon the pastor 
than the writer laid down his pen, arose electric- 
ally, glided over to the door, and with bowed 
head listened. Keen as a hound, he knew the 
step and the destination. Fidgety, hesitative, 
thinking to join them in the other room, think- 
ing he could not spare the time, looking wistful- 
ly back to the writing, then down upon the crim- 
son carpet problems spreading at his feet, then 
up to the gloomy panels of the door, and finally 
gliding back in three paces to his manuscript, 
muttering— 

“Why can’t he come in the afternoon instead 
of crawling about just as I’m sitting down to my 
work? Itdisturbs one. I don’t care for Violet’s 
being there with him; her place is with me. If I 
go in, never return to the desk with the same 
freshness ; bothers me—very much !” 

He tried to write, but those Egyptian ethics 
seemed crisp, dry as mummy casings. His 
thoughts wandered from dead and withered 
Cheops to the sweet-faced daughter in yonder 
room, who, for all he knew, might be lavishing - 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


107 


upon another the caresses he had always put| you and Fairy good. What with crotchets and 


from him, not because they were unwelcome, but 
that he really had not time. The vaulted dead of 
all the centuries seemed always waiting to entice 
him to their cold company. 

He placed the pen straight again—he was 
careful with that pen; he could not tell the years 
he had used the holder, and could not have 
brought his thumb firm to another. Then he 
trotted over the room again and out into the pas- 
sage, and took measured, ghostly strides below 
the flickering lamp, suspended in the centre of 
the hall. The space struck chill; he shivered a 
little, and opened the other door, so quietly that 
neither knew; saw his girl, to whom he was icicle- 
father, playing daughter to the church, and be- 
came colder still, waxing mildly, frostily irritable; 
and then he heard enough of the fairy lesson to 
melt with a great, grand sorrow; and heard this, 
from Violet, looking into the crackling fire— 

“Oh, if papa would only let me love him, I 
should never want to love any body more—never 
—never—never !” 

And he retreated before it. Back to his high 
walls of learning, his piles of thought and pillars 
of dry wisdom; but all the place was dreary and 
dark, and he shuddered at his own gaunt shad- 
ow on the. floor. How the words echoed, thrilled, 
seemed to'drag him from out himself, and show 
him the grim, ~unlovely soul he was! He paced 
the crimson carpet, hands clasped behind. A 
bronze Homer in the corner frowned at the neo- 
phyte, dingy lines of volumes linked a reproach, 
foolscap on the table seemed to scathe with 
lightning enmity at his wavering; then, lo! a 
sign: a fine stuffed owl, the emblem of his faith, 
placed with the books ‘lofty above the antlers, 
toppled and fell. It was by no supernatural aid ; 
simply the wind which scoured from over the 
Downs as though on chase for stars across the 
sea; and the casements and the chimneys of the 
old house rattled with weird defiance of the mas- 
ter’s nerves, and winds within, like imprisoned 
furies, howled and shrieked and whistled and 
moaned the length of the lonely corridor, trying 
hard to join the riotous crew assailing the walls 
without; and together they made such a commo- 
tion he did not wonder much that his poor old 
owl had toppled over. Still, it looked so very 
like disgust, and he stood over it pen in hand, 
listening dolorously to the noise, unwilling to 
touch or leave it. 

Midst of which the pastor, entered, benevolent 
of face, gentle of mien, and could not quite un- 

derstand the student standing something like a 
mourner, but at last came up with the catas- 
trophe, upon which he looked half comically. 

“What! is the old bird gone?” 

He knew that old bird by long experience, had 
often glanced at it with ludicrous respect, long- 
ing, perhaps, to send a book at its roost, so im- 
perturbable was its provoking stony wisdom. 

_“ Hush—sh !” 

The master leaned over his favorite, and care- 
fully raised the dust-thick plumage, holding it 
forth and looking into the eyes as though to read 
his course. 

“Ts it an omen ?” in breathless under-tone. 

“ Of nothing, save that the old house wants re- 
pairing and you want rest. Go to Brighton, or, 
better still, to London, for a change, and per mit 


study, fidgets and nerves, you are half beside your. 
self, ’ Shake the whole olf, and it will be but just 
in time. Forgive my freedom—you know me.” 

The master looked up dazed; such iconoclasm 
took his breath away. Half an hour ago he would 
have resented it finely, now he received it with a 
sort of moody indifference. The pastor could tell 
by clutching of the gown that some struggle was 
in progress, those nervously twitching fingers were 
so expressive, and he went back to Violet, to 
whom he said a few words in a low voice. 

The child ran forth, and gently entered the sa- 
cred place, where the tall man was wiping dust 
from the dishevelled plumage. Winding her arms 
about him, she lisped, with cunning praittle, ‘‘ Love 
me now, papa!” 

At which a wonderful light passed over his 
face, great gleams of joy, and flashings of quick 
pain. Quietly, with much grace and control, he 
placed the bird upon his manuscript, turned the 
lamp low, and then opened his arms and embraced 
her fondly. 

This little event was never forgotten by either 
of those immediately concerned. It was not al- 


luded to, but its good effect was visible in the fact 


that the student gave up much more of his time 
to his child than as heretofore to his abstruse 
studies, 

Sometimes Bertie Evans and Violet Hamilton 
met, but it was always in the company of their 
parents, who interchanged civilities and pursued 
their separate walks. 

Great was the excitement in Hawkingdean when 
it was known that the other old house, closed for 
so long, had become possessed of a tenant; still 
greater when this tenant was found to be the em- 
inent preacher, whose fame had somehow pene- 
trated even to this out-of-the-way place. The 
Moated Grange had been purchased, it was said, 
by this great man, and much good was expected 
of it by the poor, who tidied up their places, clean- 
bibbed their urchins, expended a trifle upon chintz 
at the general store to new curtain the windows, 
and cleared away long-standing rubbish in odd 
corners. 

There could be no doubt the fortunate news 
was correct, for the whole house had been well 
prepared and in part refurnished, although, it was 
believed, in somewhat humble fashion. Anon the 
housekeeper was known to have come, “ quite a 
lady” (the village declared), and a couple of serv- 
ants, very kind-looking girls, it was said; and 
shor tly afterward it was rumored that the great 
man himself was upon the scene, and strict watch 
was kept between the laces and bottles of sticky 
sweets, All the dames stood on all the door-steps 
and stared with wonder and admiration when he 
was seen coming down the street; they had not 
stared at a man so much since a real live huntsman 
in a scarlet coat passed through their village. The 
smith came leaning a brawny arm against the 
post of his shed, for it was something indeed to 
see so courtly-looking a person in the quiet street, 
talking freely and familiarly with all, a kind word 
and smile for each. The sexton’s sharp eyes were 
actively employed while the gentleman passed, 
and he said to his blind granddaughter, sitting si- 
lent by the fire, but thinking so much, “ Mayhap 
there’s better times in store for the village; an’ 
the winter maybe won’t try us so, arter all!” So 


the masons and carpenters to come in; it will do | much said the new face among them, 


108 


Naturally the pastor called early, and warmly 
expressed his pleasure at the good fortune which 
had sent them such a neighbor; and these two 
being gentle creatures, both of them learned in 
and loving the same theology, kinsmen to one di- 
vinity, and warmed by the same charity, soon be- 
came good friends enough. Mr. Garland was 
equally in sympathy with the love of the breezy 
heights shared by the pastor and his friend of 
the Bishop’s House. In Brighton Mr. Garland 
resided at a distance from the Downs; here he 
could be upon them instantly, and without hav- 
ing one hundred thousand pairs of eyes bent 
upon him on his way thither. 

To such souls of all the English tracts these 
South Downs bespeak the infinitely sublime. The 
poet and the painter have loved them also with 
rare affection, while the equestrian holds the 
sixty miles of springy turf indented by these pic- 
turesque villages the most pleasant ground upon 
which to indulge his favorite exercise, still soli- 
tary as when in ancient days merchants from dis- 
tant parts landed upon these shores. The South- 
ern men were favored: barter with the nations 
landing on the coast gave an advantage to the 
Gallic race peopling these slopes, which, like the 
hunting grounds of the red-skin, were the Elysian 
fields of the braves. Here they were born; upon 
these bracing heights grew to virile hardihood ; 
here they gloried in the chase, and decked the 
long-tressed daughters of the tribes with trophies 
of their savage sport; here they were buried, 
upon the summit of the range of hills, eastward, 
face-upward to the wide scroll of stars. Here 
Druids built rude altars, and on their nights of 
sacrifice slaughtered the flower of the youth, un- 
til the hill-sides ran red even to the sea. This 
priest of a later faith viewed the scene of those 
mystic rites with keen interest, No red fires now 
lighted up the heights, no discordant chant awoke 
an echo; the distant sheep bells, the dog’s warn- 
ing bark, and a vast plateau seemingly given over 
to peace and solitude. 

The pastoral swains had not always known 
peace. Far back in past centuries men of the 
Downs and men of the Sea hereabout were in 
open rivalry. A. great inundation had over- 
whelmed the Flemish coast, and the Flanders 
fishermen (at that time considered the most dar- 
ing upon the sea-board) resorted hither in a col- 
ony. ‘To-day they preserve in Bruges traditions 
inscribed on quaint parchment of the wonders 
worked by these men of their coast. We think 
of the Belgium of our day as chiefly remarkable 
for superb farming, a toy coast-line of some forty 
miles, a fine town celebrated for its manufacture 
of carpets and lace, a poem-like, old-world city, 
with a cathedral possessed of the loftiest tower 
in Europe and the finest painting in the world, 
and an intelligent race of people who appreciate 
the English as they are appreciated nowhere else 
upon the Continent; but at the time we write of, 
that coast-line was of great importance to the 
people, and its fishermen were much depended 
upon: these, with a sprinkling of the tillers of 
the soil, settled on our shores, and inaugurated a 
prosperity that produced jealousy and a fierce 
rivalry that existed for centuries. But it is dif- 
ferent now, and peaceful every where: even that 
fair girl-child of the recluse, whom the country- 
folk in untrained compliment loved to call the 


“ Little Queen of the South Downs,” might roam | 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


for a long walk by the sea safe from molestation. 
The days had passed when the wrecker, the bue- 
caneer, and the smuggler made this a dangerous 
route; men of the haven were kind with a rough 
courtesy when they met her, and any of them 
would have imperilled life for the young beauty. 
Never would it be forgotten how once, when 
younger, gathering wild flowers with her maid, 
she strayed and was lost. The whole place turn- 
ed out and gave the country-side a searching, the 
like of which had not been seen since they hunt- 
ed here for witches. It was evening; the Downs 
were draped with gray mist, and shadows crept 
along the slopes like giant forms aiding the quest; 
stars twinkled above the sea, lights shone from 
cottages of fishermen and herdsmen; all the road- 
ways were bare and white, not a figure was to be 
seen; the men kindled torches, and in separate 
bands searched the dusky hills, while the women- 
folk turned out to watch the glimmering trail of 
lights, now up, now down, like a far-away pro- 
cession of glow-worms. At last they found her, 
fast asleep, tired with wandering, but not afraid; 
she knew the hills too well to fear, knew that 
when morning came she would find the way back 
somehow. They found her with the pretty head 
pillowed on an old sheep which, as though con- 
scious of the precious charge of this gentle lamb, 
was lying perfectly still; it had kept her company 
faithfully, kept her warm through the chilly, 
misty hours. Geoffrey Hamilton gave a purse of 
gold to the shepherd in charge, and purchased 
the meek-eyed animal for his little girl’s especial 
pleasure; to the villagers who had found her he 
likewise gave a golden requital; the treasure he 
had been near to losing was restored, and what 
was all else compared with that ? 

Many a time had Mr. Garland walked over the 
Downs at night, but never once had he met a 
soul. Men might see him take some shadowy road 
leading to the lonely hills, might see him return 
at dawn, but neither man nor woman did he meet 
all the time of that solitary journey. The peas- 
antry love not these mystical solitudes after night- 
fall: there are strange stories current of bad deeds 
done therein, and of an uncanny company said to 
hold congress at midnight—relics of those super- 
stitious times we told of, when this was an amphi- 
theatre of dark performances, or was said to be; 
fears of the supernatural order, fostered by the 
phenomenal effects of the night season. By evil 
spells, unholy incantations, and the grim ritual of 
necromancy, much ill was supposed to be wrought. 
It was an age that believed in witchcraft, that 
feared it, that bribed it, that crossed itself against 
it, and that burned it, but that could not root it 
out. In spite of it all, the witches held high car- 
nival, and rode on broomsticks from Hawking- 
dean to Devil’s Dyke in ghastly company, causing © 
the fairies to seamper from their rings, and in- 
sects under the long stalks of grass to creep tim- 
orously away. We do but repeat the fireside faith 
of theage. The story did not stop at witches and 
their familiars; the peasantry will still tell of 
how the Evil One in person was once seen at sun- 
set-time standing upon the upmost ridge in dark 
relief against the sky; was seen to descend to- 
ward the village, where awe-struck watch was 
kept, while the men stuffed the chimney-place 
with sacks, laid the Bible down at the entrance, 
and pasted sheets of brown paper over the door 
at the back. A terrible time was passed: he was 


¢ 


a ee 


seit Sak heainaaes Ss a 


* 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


known to be about in the village, and nobody 
durst go out to see what he was up to. 

So tremendous was the evil wrought by the 
South Down witches that the Monks of Lewes 
Priory once proceeded in solemn procession, with 
crosses and candles, to the “ Satanic Chasm,” bet- 
ter known as the Yevil’s Dyke, where, with great 
ceremony, in presence of a circle of scared rus- 
tics, the Downs were duly exorcised for the bene- 
fit of the shepherds. What with witches, priests, 
fairies, thieves, and the French, the sheep had a 
hard time of it. 

Woe befell all maiden ladies “td kept black 
cats! Those given to study and learning were 
considered tainted, and were watched accordingly, 
Did cattle breed amiss or crops fail, was there 
less sunshine or more rain-fall, it was set down 
to the class which did not study, and whose charm 
was its ignorance. Red-haired folk were looked 
upon with violent antipathy, black tresses were 


‘said to be directly imported from Satan, and 


blonde ringlets were the certain insignia of fiend- 
bestowed attractiveness. The trail of snails on 
the front-door, and the squabble of two drakes on 
the pond, especially if the wind blew the smoke 
a particular way, was proof emphatic. Altogether, 
although bewitching and enchanting times, rural 
existence at that day was decidedly < a snare. 


Over these Downs had come a traveller, who, 
while standing upon the highermost ridge, his 
back to the setting sun, might have been painted 
for Lucifer himself—a tall and imperious being 
of mocking cast, black against the yellow-red sky, 
seemingly “standing upon one of the summits of 
the earth, viewing the panorama of pastoral peace. 
This circle of hills, with its wide sweep from 
Beachy Head to Hampshire, pleased him vastly ; 
it recalled the mighty grass lands of Australia, 
where, by-the-way, if he had not been a partic- 
ularly honored individual, he had at least had 
breathing room, and had made the most of his 
space. With folded arms he stood looking over 
the undulating greensward, and a scornful curl of 
the lip rendered the face additionally sardonic. 

“Sometimes I think sheep-farming out West is 
the only enjoyable existence. I did not want to 
return there, but, on my honor, the cares of diplo- 
macy, the worry of commerce, the constant scru- 
tiny requisite to keep the gentlemen in my em- 
ploy up to the mark, the bother of mixing in 
society, the continual tax upon one’s intellect, the 
awful drain upon one’s genius, the fatigue of my 
seasons of royalty when with the tribes, the sur- 
veillance necessary to keep the people out of some 


‘confounded scrape or other, all come heavy upon 


one pair of shoulders, and I often think the life 
out there, notwithstanding its minimum of profit, 
presents the simple alternative between working 
to death and working to live. But, however, the 
work is not over here just yet.” 

Slowly descending the slope he entered the vil- 
lage, and in the twilight descried the glimmer of 
a light through the red curtain of aninn. It must 
be an inn, he thought; nothing else would present 
that roseate glow. As he approached, the light 
shone cheerily in the dusk. Looking round, he 
made his first acquaintance with Hawkingdean— 
shadowy trees and the stretch of misty hillock ; 
clusters of cottages, with delicious bits of garden, 
in many of which were fragrant roses; a pretty 


‘eliurch that seemed to have crept into a niche of | 


j the great chalk range; 


109 
some white palings that 
looked ghostly in the evening light; a pond that 
reflected back the gray; felled timber, like the 
grim and silent witnesses after a battle; and that 
inn, quaintly built as some picturesque hostel of 
Holland. From the opening to the valley came 
sound of the sea at no great distance; its rum- 
bling echoed along the cleft, and would have been 
heard with yet greater distinctness but for the . 
wind scouring down from the hills. The travel- 
ler had not yet seen what he had come to see— 
the Moated Grange—and before entering the hos- 
tel he walked on farther through the village. He 
thought he had come upon it when the Bishop’s 
House was reached, and he stood looking at the 
pile, which was gloomy enough to impress even 
this mysterious being. There was one light at 
the upper chamber where Geoffrey Hamilton was 
deep in study, with his daughter sitting beside 
the fire; and Noel Barnard, who had heard suffi- 
cient of the abstracted student to arouse his inter- 
est, contemplated the owl’s nest with admiration 
and curiosity. He went on, passed Mrs. Evans’s 
tasteful little house, and crossed an open space 
on which was a pond with some geese, and a line 
of linen-posts whereby the good-wives dried their 
washing. He could smell the salt sea from this 
point ; it was an unsheltered corner, open to the 
four winds of heaven, exposed to the Channel 
mists, often flooded by the water-courses among 
the hills, bared sullenly to the great showers that 
seemed to gather purposely for cleansing it; and 
here fittingly was the fisher colony—two rows of 
black and cheerless cottages, without gardens 
(nothing but shingle would grow hereabouts), 
without the picturesque and rural surroundings 
peculiar to English villages; only black walls, 
white door-steps, gray oyster shells, and slate 
flints; but the inmates were happy and healthy. 
Slight kinship was there between the tillers of 
the land and the toilers of the sea; little enough 
had Hawkingdean folk heard of their ancestors, 
but here tradition was ingrafted for all time. 

“Come to the end of the world, I suppose!” 
said the traveller, turning with disrelish from the 
quarter. 

In lieu of retracing his way, he took a narrow 
road between the yard and the uprearing grass 
land and cultivated belongings of a farm. This 
brought him to a huge garden, girt in with iron 
palings. The trees and shrubs were so dense and 
thick within that he could see nothing; but, 
walking round, his industry was rewarded by 
meeting with a gap where once a pathway had 
been, and to which an old iron gate, fast locked, 
gave ingress. Mr. Barnard’s long legs relieved 
him at once of any impediment so far as barriers 
were concerned, and he was soon at the end of 
the deserted path, arriving at a flight of stone 
steps, slippery, and overgrown with moist weed, 
and washed by the water of a sluggish moat. The 
water was broad and black and unutterably 
dreary-looking, the tangled growth upon its banks 
afforded covert for numerous wild fowl undisturb- 
ed from year’s end to year’s end, broad lilies grew 
upon its surface, fiery-eyed creatures lurked within 
its hollows, and a weird haze seemed to envelop 
the whole neighborhood. The broken, blackened 
column of an ancient water arch was shadowy 
amidst the sedges below ; moored toa rusty ring 
attached to a rotting post was an old disused 
boat; beyond the moat a garden wilderness, wild 


110 


as though never trodden by human foot or tended 
by human hand; and rising up, all shadowy and 
irregular, yet even thus beautiful, the GRANGE. 

‘A queer place to become the possessor of,” 
murmured the observer. ‘Bought it cheap, I 
fancy; lively home for the housekeeper, if of 
nervous tendencies.” 

He dragged the boat toward him with a vigor- 
ous pull; the staple gave way, and the sluggish 
water floated the lumbering craft to his feet. 
Feeling first if it contained water or was uncom- 
fortably damp, and finding the latter to be the 


case, he brought from the bank a quantity of dry 
leaves and cushioned therewith the seat which he 
proposed to use, then pushed off, and might well 
have been taken for the ghastly ferry-man of Styx. 
His intention was to approach the building by 
the water-way, and ascertain how far the key 
handed him by his legal factotum served its pur- 
pose. Very slowly the bulky old craft floated 
round, the one oar stirring the water lazily and 
as if with reluctance. On either side the creat- 
ures crouching in the black hollows and under 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the clumped bushes uttered the alarm note to the 
tribes ahead, and mighty was the scampering up 
the banks. It is wondrous, the connection of 
ideas. This goblin-like personage, seated in his 
lumbering boat, on the dusky water-way, disturb- 
ing the whole cordon of beast and reptile, makes 
this remark— 

‘“‘T wonder how my precious wife is getting on ? 
Put her out rather, I fancy, that return of Helen’s 
child. Shouldn’t be surprised if Lindon gives 
Hortense her congé.” 

Tranquilly the boat glided on, even to the 


“THEN PUSHED OFF, AND MIGHT WELL HAVE BEEN TAKEN FOR THE GHASTLY FERRY-MAN OF ary” 


broken arch of which O’Connor had spoken. 
Here were several steps, and above them the huge 
iron door. He secured the boat by tying its iron 
ring with his red and yellow pocket-handkerchief 
to a corresponding staple as on the other side. 
The door had not been unlocked for ages, and 
presented a work of some difficulty, owing to 
the rust and incrusting of noisome excrescences. 
This forced open, a passage was before him, dark, 
damp, and vault-like; hissing inmates darted past 
him over his boots for the steps; fluttering creat- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ures flew swift for the opening thus suddenly 
disclosed, fanning his face; while on the walls his 
hands encountered indescribable ones. 

“An under-ground paradise!” he muttered. 
“T wonder what they charge for apartments here- 
abouts? Reminds me of my lively sensations 
when lost in the catacombs; guide thought I was 
done for; wasn’t; turned up again, the richer by 
a magnificent diamond ring. Fond of exploring 
by myself; hate parties; so much irreverence and 
vulgarity ; no respect for the ancient or historic ; 
prevent interested research too! Stopping at 
Ghizeh, party starting for the Pyramids—always 
make for Cheops, must have the most for their 
money—/ made for Mycerinus, quarter of the size, 
and nobody there. Went poking about in three 
or four quadrangular-shaped chambers ; stationed 
a black fellow outside; presently came upon a 
quadrangular-shaped stone, rather different to the 
rest; tools. with me, hoisted it; coffer inscribed 
with select Egyptian, and filled with rings, neck- 
lets, etc., once the adornment of some of my hon- 
ored forefathers. Great respect for their tombs. 
One of these days [ll try the Sphinx; have an 
idea it’ll pay for the time. Sha’n’t forget first 
view of her, seen upona clear bright night: grace- 
ful head, clear-cut, gray, flooded with the pale 
lustre, majestic expression, somewhat African, the 
mouth exquisite. Overcome, I fell on the sand, and 
made obeisance to my royal ancestress, But this 
lively passage is‘ uncommonly like one in those 
Alexandrian catacombs, although can’t say the 
refreshing stream reminds me. of the Mediter- 
ranean. But now to see what Ptolemy Lagus 
may be about.” 

Chattering to himself in this fashion while 
lighting his small pocket lantern, Mr. Barnard 
then softly applied his science in relation to me- 
chanics, and opened the inner door. It admitted 
him to a cellar, and by natural transitiom Charon 
became transformed to Guido Fawkes. This un- 
der-ground storage place was of large dimen- 
sions; in days of Cavalier troubles it had been 
used for other purposes than the bountiful stow- 
ing away of wines. Mr. Barnard did not stop 
here. The remaining door gave him but slight 
trouble. Beyond was a flight of steps, and he 
extinguished his light before mounting these, for 
he concluded they would conduct to one of the 
outer offices. They did, to a cold back kitchen, 
scrupulously avoided by the nervous domestics. 
He saw a light between the hinged jointing of a 
door, and cautiously peered through. Within 
was the servants’ kitchen, where two maids were 
seated at a table, both on the high gossip, one 
working, the other staring hard and supersti- 
tiously at a huge snuff on the tallow candle; and 
this one was saying, to Mr. Barnard’s intense 
relish— 

‘Depend on it, there’s sum-mat wrong; look 
at it; my granny says whin-iver that shape is 
seen there’s sum-mat uncanny stirring about. 
The sniffers is in the back kitchen, but I no 
more dares go in for ’em than I dares go in the 
back gardin for the horse-redish to put on the 
supper table. An’ that Miss Evelyn’s as bold as 
a lion; only two nights sin’ I seed her actually 
-a-walking down by the moat, the moon a-shining, 
' the snow a-fallin’, and she like a sperrit, nothin’ 
to do with which it’s my belief and allus has been, 
the place is haunted. Jist hear the noises on 
windy nights!” . 


111 


“Mrs. Mellerton used to say ’twas the passage 
leading to the moat, and the age of the old 
house.” 

‘Well, I knows it isn’t pleasant living in a 
place where there’s a passage leading to a moat, 
and if it wasn’t for the wages, and for feeling all 
right when master’s in the house, I couldn’t stop. 
My granny has told me of them witches as she 
heerd on when a gal; sich tales as would make 
your ’air stand on hend! ‘Betsy Jane,’ she says 
to me, ‘notice the smoke, and don’t turn toward 
the Downs if it blows in the directshun of the 
Divil’s Dyke,’ nor more I don’t.” 

“Young Master Evans told me such tales were 
idle talk and country gossip, and that we should 
not heed them; he’s a nice, kind young gentle- 
man.” 

“He may be, but shows his ignorance not be- 
lieving in the witches; ask any o’ th’ folk in the 
village. I haven’t lived here much, but granny 
has, and when she heerd as how I was to be un- 
der ’ouse-maid at the Grange she jist lifts up her 
‘ands an’ says, does that dear old ’oman, ‘ It’ll be 
the joy o’ my ’eart to have Betsy Jane so close 
agin me, but I’m sorry, I am, it’s the Grange 
she’s agoing to; it’s allus borne a bad name, and 
dark’s the deeds, I doubts, but ’ave bin done 
there.’ ” 

The silent listener paused to hear no more of 
this edifying conversation: he knew already that 
Garland had arrived, that Constance Evelyn was 
an inmate of the house, and for the time being 
he was satisfied, He did not, as some coarse 
practical joker might have done, maliciously 
make some horribly sounding supernatural noise 
with the object of half frightening these poor 
maids to death, but withdrew quietly enough to 
his water-stairs and boat and the gloomy channel. 

Mr. Barnard having left all safe and secure be- 
hind him, with a satisfied smile betook him to the 
cozy, red-curtained little inn. It was not a bux- 
om landlady of the approved description who ad- 
vanced to meet him; on the contrary, it was a 
hostess whose buxomness was deficient, whose 
thinness and sharpness and tartness were of that 
order which demands much carbonate to make it 
palatable. In early life she had married Jabez 
Payne, and he had spent his savings upon buying 
this place for public entertainment. The worst of 
it was, nor man nor beast ever came that way to 
be entertained. The Grange was unoccupied, the 
pastor had his ale from a Lewes brewery, the 
genteel inhabitants of the village received it in 
bottled form from Brighton, the master of the 
Bishop’s House didn’t drink, the farmers brewed 
their own, and the yokels (Mrs. Payne’s word) 
only drank small beer, so that it was not a prof- 
itable or progressive speculation; and sorely at 
first did the good woman repine. A gentleman 
sportsman now and then, or a tourist party, 
would have enlivened business, but the village 
was so out of the route there were absolutely not 
even these to cater for. The house was pretty 
enough and comfortable, but then, as Mrs. Payne 
briefly remarked, ‘“‘ One doesn’t care to marry into 
a public-house to find it a private one.” Jabez 
made a good husband so long as he lasted, but 
anon he was taken up the street to his last home, 
and the thin woman remained to await the pa- 
trons. She had worn down to an apathetic calm- 
ness, and had given up looking for the coming 
guest; even that solitary huntsman who had lost 


112 


himself between the hills rode through without 
bestowing a look upon the sign. This last was a 
great blow, and after it the woman waxed quiet- 
ly impervious, although not perceptibly decreas- 
ing in sourness, When Mrs. Payne saw the sin- 
cular-looking yet distinguished visitor (whom for 
the moment she took to be a foreigner) enter her 
hostelry and affably request accommodation for a 
night or two, she distinctly felt within herself (as 
she afterward said when communing with her 
maid upon the eventful circumstance) as though 
the long-waited-for had come. Altogether things 
seemed looking up in Hawkingdean ; even the fa- 
mous tenant of the Grange had given her an or- 
der for the ale required by his household. “A 
most polite attention,’ Mrs. Payne said, so true 
it is that one’s reputation commences or closes at 
the ale-house. The fact was the Minister saw 
the state of affairs, the dead-alive stagnation of 
the place, and in his humble way would help ; 
and it won for him a friend and well-wisher in 
this sour-looking landlady. Mrs. Payne’s face 
assumed a gracious smile when the stranger so- 
licited hospitality; yes, he could have every ac- 
commodation, should receive the best attention, 
would be very comfortable. Of that he express- 
ed himself assured, and all being amicably ar- 
ranged, he entered the parlor, where the smith, 
the sexton, and three or four others were just fin- 
ishing the evening posset before going home to 
bed. All rose at the stranger’s entrance: it was 
so uncommon an event, and this was so unusua!- 
looking a personage, that he was received with 
much deference. 

““Good-evening, friends—hope all are well— 
glad to meet you! Pretty place, this—bracing 
hills—one or two fine old houses. Can I offer 
you some tobacco, Sir? And” (to another) “ Pl 
trouble you for a light.” 

They were much taken by his free-and-easy 
manners, and were sociable enough, inviting him 
to join them in a quart of half-and-half. The 
friendly stranger explained that in his country it 
was usual for the new-comer to stand treat, and 
said he should feel pleasure doing so; whereat the 
smith said he saw the instant he entered the par- 
lor that he was a gentleman, and the sexton rapped 
on the table with his knuckles in corroborative 
approval. When the glasses had been duly re- 
plenished one of the company brought out an old 
box of dominoes (pleasures were simple in this 
Arcadian vale), and very soon the sport ran high, 
tongues wagging like threshing-machines on a 
variety of rural topics, of particular interest to 
Mr. Noel Barnard, who was agreeably enlighten- 
ed respecting the private and family matters of 
short-horn cows, fat hogs, South Down sheep, cart 
stallions, harness nags and cobs, Jersey cattle, 
and other stock; also upon agricultural details, 
such as the all-important subject of manure, one 
gentleman affirming barley manure to be useless 
thereabouts, another deciding there was no rais- 
ing beans without it. One of the speakers had 
tried top-dressing, and found it satisfactory, and 
turned to the visitor, ‘‘ You’re in favor of top- 
dressing, Sir ?” “ I—oh, very much so !” and har- 
mony still prevailed, the domino contest included, 
despite the excitement of the sexton,who had made 
a run with double-blank three times in succession, 
such a thing as had never happened to him all the 
time he had played dominoes. Soon the discussion 
turned to implements—broadshare, drill, plough, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


harrow, roll, oil-cake breaker, hurdles, troughs, 
pulpers, and chaff-cutters:; ;anda respected yeoman, 
laying down his church- warden pipe, said to the 
visitor, “I hear there’ s a new chaff-cutter about, 
Sir; : mayhap you’ve seen it?” “I think I have, % 
said the artistic gentleman, with much civility, and 
then gently led the conversation in the direction 
of the village, concerning which these good folk, 
never tiring of talking of what little there was to 
talk about, entertained him with the full account. 
First, of the great preacher who had come to live 
among them, and some were loud in praise; some, 
busied watching the absorbing game, said noth- 
ing. The visitor, in an impressive manner, remark- 
ed, ‘‘ Why, surely this isn’t the man who’s been 
going on so queer with his curate’s daughter ? 
Same name, comes from Brighton, odd thing, 
too! Sad affair, hushed up, can’t appear in pub- 
lic. Poor girl! awfully sorry for her; never had 
a sister, but feel for her; dreadful thing!” Of 
course all were agog at this; commend us to a 
village for epicurism in such matters, The story 
was set going now, by the morrow it would be all 
over the village. The serpentine limbs of the 
artist coiled around the ash-trays under the table 
and closed, while with grim setting of the teeth 
he looked the meaning he would not express by 
speech. The game was neglected, pipes were tak- 
en from mouths, the pewter tankards were put 
down, and the villagers stared without remark. 
At last the sexton, the wiseacre of the party, 
spoke, “ Well, if that’s it, I think they might have 
staid at Brighton. It’s wonderful the wickedness 
about !” 

““What’s all this you tell me shoob the owner 
of the old house I passed coming into the vil- 
lage ?” asked the guest. 

‘“‘Measter Hamilton, full 0’ book-larning; well, 
he’s very peculiar, orulf, and surly like, but it 
comes & always studying, leastways so we hear. 
He’s mighty clever, they do say knows every 
mortal thing ; and it’s rich too he is; has a power 
o’ money, and don’t hesitate to spend it. Some 
o’ the big parcels that come to him from Brighton 
would make your eyes open: scientific instru- 
ments, we’ve been told. He’s something of a 
philosopher, I think they call it; fond o’ the won- 
derful, deals in mysteries, and reads the stars.” 

“Bless my soul, so did my mother; very clever 
at it; know a thing or two myself; we shall get 
on well together. Ill call on the old fellow; be 
a charity, I should think.” 

And they looked at this bold and confident 
stranger with a little wonder but with much re- 
spect, and said, “ He’s a curious sort of person 
to eall on, he is!” 

Shortly afterward the company turned out and 
the guest was conducted to his chamber; a pleas- 
ant room, snowily clean, with a cheerful fire blaz- 
ing away in the capacious grate. 

The long-legged gentleman sat down and 

warmed his feet. 

“Guess [ll astonish this recluse, ‘possibly get 
something out of him” (Mr. Barnard always had 
an eye to business; it was in the blood). ‘“‘ Fond 
of the occult, is he? Good! <A disciple of the 
marvellous? Better! An adept at the mysteri- 
ous? [ll cap him! My Indian experience may 
come in here.” 

He next made a tour round his room; he want- 
ed something to read a while before this cheerful 
fire. He tried the top drawer of the chest, it was 


a 


ae a 


A MODERN 


locked ; tried the next, it yielded; contents, a cir- 
cular from a pig-trough maker, some shells, a 
short pipe, the handle of a whip, a reel of cotton, 

a fish-hook, a cough lozenge, an old memorandum- 
book, a thimble, a piece of slate-pencil, and a 
packet of seed. “Very interesting,” having made 
an inventory; “glad they didn’t lock this lot up. 

Well, what’s the bid?” With much liveliness he 
tried the drawer below, and discovered one shawl, 

one black paramatta dress, one roll of crape 
flouncing, one card-board box containing mourn- 
ing collars and cuffs, and one small box of black 
pins. “Poor soul!” said the commiserating Mr. 

Barnard; ‘‘lost her husband. Astonishing the 
number of souls I come across who have lost 
their husbands! Very depressing for me—very !” 

and with the oddest expression possible to con- 

ceive he shut the drawer up again. The inquirer | 
turned his attention to the beauties of the side- 

table by the window: artificial flowers under a 

glass, model of a ship, and a small dog with two 

heads. Next to the mantel: fac-simile, possibly, 

of the South Down shepherd of the period wrought 

in china, his mate opposite with the nose off, and 

in the centre an old brown mug, pastoral period 

likewise. He then opened the window and leaned 

his head out. 

All was very quiet, yet does a village never 
present the dead stillness of the country-to wn at 
night; there is always some faint sound, some 
sign of movement. Near by was a shed, in which 
the cattle were restless; the wind from over the 
hills and off the sea stirred the leaves and scat- 
tered the straw in the yards; pigeons made a low 
cooing; the strong-throated weasel, after corn and 
mice, uttered its curious squeak ; the poultry-yard 
at the rear of the inn was fluttered; and in the 
distance was heard the solemn measure of the 
waves breaking upon the dusky shore. Those 
were the sounds. The sights were these: A vil- 
Jage street, rows of low-pitched cottages, a few 
houses of a better order, the farmsteads, the two 
peaceful edifices—the village church and the pas- 
tor’s manse—and the great old house where the 
scholar dwelt, and where the sole light visible 
shone at the window of his study. “It would 
be interesting to know,” thought the gazer, “how 
much our learned recluse will credit without 
doubting the word of a gentleman and a travel- 
ler. Also if he is disposed to defray the cost 
of an expedition of enterprise.” 

With a sanguine smile he turned from con- 


templation of the hushed scene, from the little 


settlement which, for its quaintness, might have 
come down from days of “ Hawkynge” glory, 


-when “gentil knyghts” were equally at the serv- 


ice of the House of Lancaster for sport or for 
scombat; when the Downs and downland villages 
were picturesque with gay companies, with horses, 
dogs, and music. Now the acres upon acres of 
wild flowers are all untrampled upon, except 
where the flocks dotting the hill-sides trail off 
for sweeter pasturage. The sweep of clear green 
space preserves its own records unwritten, save 
on the folding leaves of the one great book; no 
man has troubled to collect the archives of this 
realm of the solitary herdsman; chroniclers. are 
too busy with the towns, historic sites, and the 
ancient work of builders’ hands. 

Mr. Barnard arose early and went for a bra- 
cing walk along their ridges, having ordered his 
breakfast to be ready by half past nine o’clock. 

Vou. 1.—H 


MINISTER, 118 


It was piercingly cold upon the heights, a keen 
and cutting December wind smiting the hills as 
though to cleave them asunder. The vigorous 
pedestrian smiled good-humoredly in the face of 
it, and performed his constitutional to a rood, 
ay, and enjoyed it, returning at length, all aglow 
from one end of his long form to the other, and 
to find the village warmly sheltered even from 
December northeast winds. The sun was smil- 
ing full upon the little place, and a very differ- 
ent scene was presented to that of the preceding 
night. His inn peeped forth at one end of the 
street, lozenge-latticed, thick on the garden side 
with winter roses; JaBEzZ Payne, LICENSED, etc., 
over the door; a swinging sign bearing Tux 
GRANGE Inn, in discolored art; to the rear he 
smelled pigs, saw Alderney cows, and heard a 
hound. Mr. Barnard slightly extended his walk; 
it wanted three minutes to the time appointed 
for his breakfast; he was very punctual always. 
‘Cook the eggs a minute or two less if one goes 
in before the time,” he used to say. A man was 
tiding the foremost of a team down to the pond. 
The steady clang of iron on iron came from the 
smithy. The stranger walked down the street, 
and the village stared at the stranger; the stran- 
ger returned the compliment by staring at the 
village; the village had never been so stared at 
before, and went in-doors again; the stranger 
pursued his way. He came to the fisher colony; 
nets were hanging on the outer walls, boats were 
drawn up near by, conical baskets formed pyra- 
mids by the doors, grubby-mouthed young of the 
fisher colony sported upon the oyster shells and 
shingle. Thence he betook himself to the gar- 
den gate of the Bishop’s House, a romantic edi- 
fice by all lights; gabled, overrun with ivy, with 
dead gleaming of old red bricks put together 
when the Tudors played at art patronage. ~“ Re- 
turn after breakfast,” said the artist, and went 
back to do justice to Mrs. Payne’s liberal pro- 
viding. 

True to his word, he returned after breakfast, 
and galvanized the elderly, low-speaking woman 
who appeared at his summons. She informed 
him that her master would see no one, and was 
deeply engaged. 

“So am I,” said Mr. Barnard, with a sly look at 
the decorous domestic, and placing a half crown 
in herhand. ‘Engaged to see Mr. Hamilton.” 

With much gravity she returned his guerdon, 
saying, “I will, if you please, tell my master you 
wish so particularly to see him,” and departed 
upon her errand, but presently returned to say 
her master knew nothing of the person’s busi- 
ness; whatever it was, he must communicate it 
in writing. 

“Right you are,” said Mr. Barnard, and tak- 
ing out his pocket-book, he tore therefrom a leaf, 
upon which he wrote this mystical announce- 
ment: “ Hastern Traveller, twenty years incarcer- 
ated under-ground by hitherto unknown race ; ter- 
rible story ; recently arrived in England ; would 
be obliged by an immediate audience.” It seemed 
such a queer affair altogether, and it was so very 
possible the stranger had landed at Newhaven 
and walked over the Downs hither, that Mr. 
Hamilton gave permission for him to be admit- 
ted, and received him in the library, where a 
large fire lighted up the backs of solid walls of 
books, and glimmered upon the scholar’s rugged 
face, lending it a color not its own. 


114 " A MODERN 


““My scribbled mem.—very unceremonious, 
Mr. Hamilton—hope you'll excuse it; thought it 
might explain better than servant—like servants 
very much, but can’t deliver messages. Heard 
of your profound learning—thought you would 
like to hear tremendous experience, of which I 
have been the victim, and that you might help 
me by advice, perhaps take sufficient interest to 
do something in it. Untold riches—fabulous 
wealth; plate your South Downs with gold from 
one end to the other !” 

“Would you have any objection, Sir, to lower- 
ing your voice, which may or may not be an un- 
pleasant one, but which strikes me as singularly 
discordant? I hate voices.” 

“So do I, but we can’t do without ’em—used 


‘ Za 
aN 


be 
QF 
Yd 


wy 


ass 
POA eal 


5 
a 


MINISTER. 


But his legs fidgeted Mr. Hamilton very much, 
for first one and then the other embraced the 
fire, then darted off in a tangent like javelins ; 
and then they went together, as though both 
were going up the chimney; then one slipped 
somewhere under the chair, but where, was a 
problem, while the other glided under a table 
near; and all with such active and rhythmical 
spontaneity that the student thought this person 
must be all legs, and looked at him with consid- 
erable curiosity ; at the same time it amazed him 
greatly, and he politely asked— 

“Do you think you could keep your legs still 
five minutes ?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Mr. Barnard, “unless walk- 
ing about all the time—born like it—when quite 


7 


“IN THE USUAL OLD CHAIR, LOST IN A REVERIE.” 


to be worse—old German fellow just found out 
animals talked originally—awful jargon—fancy 
a field full of dairy-maids and cows !” 

“You will excuse me, but do you mind talking 
slowly and as consecutively as possible? You 
will find the hills—” 

“Know all about it—magnificent—been up 
there this morning—bird’s-eye view of your house 
from the summit—very fine. ‘There,’ said I, 
‘dwells one to whom learning is as a hand- 
maiden!” 

He was stretching out his hands to the fire, 
his thin face came out profiled upon the books; 
he looked a thinker, he was decidedly eccentric. 
One way and another the recluse had not been 
so impressed of late years as upon this occasion. 


an infant skipped like a flea—bound to be a 
great traveller every one said—and public voice * 
spake truth—been every where.” 

“JT don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sir, an 
I’m a man of very few words, but you adopt an 
extravagant phraseology peculiarly offensive to 
me.” 

“Gift of the gab—I know—don’t mind me— 
can’t hurt my feelings—haven’t got any. Tell 
you this story slow as I can; won’t take long— 
feel certain you’ll move in the matter.” 

“Tt’s doubtful if I shall ever be still again,” 
muttered Geoffrey Hamilton, with a morose look 
at the other’s legs. a 

““T mean that you will move the Government. 
J can’t—no influence—won’t notice my letters— 


A MODERN MINISTER, ~ 


hard done by—subject of the Queen too—in some 
countries, you know, lead to a war; but to a man 
of pluck and some capital this offers inducement 
to take more than ordinary interest.” 

‘‘T have neither, Sir, and am not likely to aid 
your proposals in any way. I avoid business and 
the busy; my object is to live retired.” 

“JT won’t trespass upon your studious privacy 
long; just hear what I’ve got to say, and tell me 
what you think afterward.” And, without wait- 
ing for permission, Mr. Barnard commenced one 
of those narratives of Oriental extravagance in 
which he delighted, during which Mr. Hamilton 
sat, immeasurably astonished, while his visitor 
critically observed the effect of his powers of in- 
vention. 

“Do you seriously wish me to believe the as- 
tounding and, to put it expressively, as it seems 
to me, lying relation I have just heard ?” asked 
Mr. Hamilton. 

“To be sure I do. 
not surprised you speak out ! 
my feelings can be ?” 

“T don’t know what they have been, if you 
have gone through all that you describe; but it 
strikes me as being very like a piece of outrageous 
fiction.” 

“So it does me; so it would any one; but let 
somebody go there and prove it for the satisfac- 
tion of this country. There’s an opening at Ele- 
phanta for inquiry, I do assure you. I don’t pre- 
sent this before you as an interested person, as a 
poor person, or as a person wishing to conduct 
any investigation connected with the matter; I’ve 
had quite enough of it. I simply recount what 
has been, and what is, and I can only say I shall 
be happy, if any thing is done in the matter, to 
subscribe, say, £500, toward prosecuting a disin- 
terested inquiry. This I will place in the hands 
of my solicitor, Mr. O’Connor, of Chancery Cham- 
bers, Cursitor Street, who will, I am sure, oblige 
me by receiving subscriptions to be paid in to the 
account of the Elephanta inquiry.” 

“What you have said, Sir, sounds fair and rea- 
sonable. Perhaps you will give me your solicitor’s 
address in writing ?” 

“Certainly, if you wish it.” And the visitor 
wrote it down, Mr, Hamilton meantime thinking, 
possibly, the gentleman’s experience might have 
had something to do with the chronic restlessness 
to which he seemed to be subject. 

“T should think,” said the gentleman, looking 
up carelessly, “if I give five hundred, and you 
give five hundred, we might manage it between 
us, and retain the prestige ; for if once it’s known 
the initiative is taken, troops of adventurers will 
rush in and want to share the spoil.” 

“Tm not aware that I said I was going to do 
any thing of the kind, Sir!” and with an irritable 
movement the master doubled the written paper, 
and put it in his pocket-book. 

“Neither did 1; these things-want well look- 
ing at; so many men who can afford it better, 
and I think it’s more their duty than either yours 
or mine. One of us with his learning, the other 
with his art, has quite enough to attend to; but 
I'll be off up the hill; I love these windy heights.” 

“JT wish you good-morning!” The student 
bowed abruptly, clutching nervously at his dress- 
ing-gown, and with an irregular jolt quitted the 
library, proceeding to his private retreat above, 
while the decorous domestic opened the door for 


. 


Never mind expression ; 
What do you think 


115 


the stranger. Mr. Hamilton was very much an- 
noyed. That any person should profane the re- 
tirement of the Bishop’s House, and intrude upon 
his seclusion, for the purpose of imposing upon 
his credulity, seemed such an outrage as to be 
barely possible. On the other hand, the visitor’s 
narrative had been so singular a jumble of Hin- 
doo reality and fable, Mr. Hamilton could not re- 
strain himself from falling into irritable consid- 
eration of its purport. In the usual old chair, 
lost in a reverie wherein scholarship and science 
blended, while the grim mythology of India seemed 
to loom upon the dusky walls, tiers of old books, 
lofty and massive, took rocky semblance, and by 
the vacant gaze through half-closed lids grew 
like some giant deity of the cave temples, of 
whose marvels and hidden treasures the person 
had talked until the recluse could scarcely sit, un- 
der the infliction. The mystical traditions of -the 
East had always a fascinating attraction for the 
inwrapped scholar, well versed in its ancient liter- 
atures. The visitor had woven imagery of his own 
with the rich colors of Indian romance, and hung 
the highly wrought tapestry upon weird rocks of 
the colossal temples, and so vividly that Geoffrey 
Hamilton had almost been transported to those 
shadowy interiors, and stood in awe before the 
mighty achievements of primeval sculpture. 


ieee 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
THE GRANGE FIRESIDE. 


HAWKINGDEAN GRANGE did not impress Con- 
stance Evelyn with the gloomy feelings other peo- 
ple regarded it with. There was a shadowy effect 
about it, but this to her represented the poetic, 
the historic, the romantic, not the superstitious. 
The recesses of the tangled garden, with the plan- 
tation thick with fir-trees and soft with dropped 
cones, was a beautiful retreat to this bright young 
spirit that had roamed the dusky fragrant ways 
of Bournemouth and Torquay. The Moat was a 
place of wonders; those giant reeds that smote 
each other with a cross-ways rhythm, the sullen 
water with its freightage of lilies and broad leaves, 
and trail of attendant weed, the wild fowl that 
flew from her approach, the dismantled water-gate 
and arch with its festooned ivy and bind-weed, 
were all very beautiful and, when she had over- 
come the sense of loneliness, most pleasant. She 
had not devoted time to reading poetry or ro- 
mances—Mr. Evelyn considered both unfitted for 
the conscientious training of a clergyman’s daugh- 
ter—but she possessed the love of both as devel- 
oped by nature and in age. This wild, deserted 
place was lovely in her eyes, and here opened the 
dream-time that comes but once in life. 

There was a startling measure of happiness 
about this coming to Hawkingdean, and since un- 
able to quit it she lived forth the dream with such 
pure delight as only those know who are unspoiled 
by the world and humanity as was Constance 
Evelyn. She had resisted it, struggled against 
any such possibility as this, would have fled from 
the destiny which was enveloping her, but whith- 
er? She tried to be cold with him, but what was 
coldness opposed to such infinite tenderness as 
was his? She sought to assume indifference if 
not dislike, but what hollow acting it must seem 
and how despicable she must appear in his eyes, 


A MODERN 


she feared. It was useless, it was impossible. 
Tney met in the comfortable old-fashioned. draw- 
ing-room ; she was at needle-work when he arrived, 
coated and snow-sprinkled ; the sight of her face, 
which he had not seen for a long time, beside the 
fire recalled his home, and he was moved by emo- 
tion. He went up to her, gave her his hand, and 
kissed her upon the brow—she had been the play- 
mate of his child. Constance was equally affected, 
but shook off the feeling and bustled about seeing 
to his comfort; and it was like another place 
with her in it, so much does a face, a presence, 
lend to the magic which is the enchantment of 
home. 

When they had settled down it seemed like 
old times: he with his thoughtful considerate 
courtesy, she with her pensive beautiful regard ; 
he studious, happier for her presence; she with 
her timid dream silvering and making light the 


116 


edges of life’s clouds, and delighting in her quiet 
servitude. 

One morning among the Minister’s letters was 
one from a correspondent too humble to append 
his name: “ Will Mr. Garland bestow a word or 
two of encouragement upon one struggling upward, 
but who is very faint, and who fears sinking upon 
the way? No money needed.” It pleased. the 
preacher, and he sent to the address given under 
initials this response: ‘‘ Have faith in Grod, have 
faith in self, and fear not.” It was concise, yet 
a message; and it was all-eloquent. ‘ Mine is a 
large, rich, but unclarified nature,” once said Mar- 
garet Fuller; ‘my history presents much super- 
ficial, temporal tragedy. The woman in me kneels 
and: weeps in tender rapture; the man in me 
rushes forth, but only to be baffled. Yet the time 
will come when from the union of this tragic 
king and queen shall be born a radiant sovereign 
—self.” At the commencement of this crusade 
Garland had set himself the Herculean labor— 
not of conquering self, but of creating a self of 
imperishable structure. Under the severe sim- 
plicity of Westley Garland’s life there was poetry ; 
through all his writings, subservient to stern con- 
trol, was imagination; but mark, subservient. A 
thought would here and there flash on the page 
or from the pulpit, glowing as the jewel-breast of 
a bird beneath a song, but it was to link with 
electric love two worlds. His theology was not 
that of telling the number of golden square feet 
paving the heaven of the righteous, it was, “ Heav- 
en is there—seek it, learn its wonders for your- 
self; they are not to be told here.” Yet no man 
could have told their fancied glories with more 
exquisite delight; but such colorings would not 
be grounded upon implicitness, and therefore 
would not do for him nor others ; by his reasoning 
the same principle applied in the matter of his 
style. The silver speech of the ancients was no- 
ticeably absent from his discourse. The plains 
of Marathon pale before the Garden of Gethsem- 
ane, as the splendor of the Crescent pales before 
the white banner of the Cross. There was rap- 


ture tremulous on the lips of dying children, and 
this was the modern eloquence more silver to his 
ears. He possessed a wonderful and sad tender- 
ness that was like unto an odor that breathes upon 
us from long years through old letters, or some 
relic carefully kept away—maybe a piece of blue 
ribbon, a little girl’s sash, or a baby’s sock—which, 
when brought forth in some quiet, sacred moment, 
speaks to the heart through the old odor weight- 


MINISTER. » 

ed with long-dead kisses and such caresses as 
shall never come again. Or more happily it 
may be likened to a hue which is scarcely a tint, 
barely a shade, far removed from the strength of 
color. Hue, that is the invalid delicacy of color; 
a hectic loveliness like the very spirit of color 
glowing at a distance; the maidenhood of shad- 
ow first shrinking from the light. In nature it 
will take form in that vivid living pink born of the 
death of the sun, when the last flushing has fled 
from the sky. Do you recall that light in your 
lost child’s eyes when they looked up in yours ? 
it was sharp and swift and never to be forgotten, 
but withal tender beyond the telling: only a hue, 
strongly defined as it was ; one you have been hun- 
grily searching for ever since in strange eyes, and 
have never found. Fruit pieces, with the magic 
name of Lance somewhere curving under broken 
trails of vine, are tender-hued with that indefin- 
able consummate expression we call, for better 
name, the bloom. 

Allied to this tenderness was refined taste, reg- 
ulating every action. Taste is the etiquette of 
delicacy—the nice perception of the most sensi- 
tive part of human nature. It is the sensibility 
of haughtiness toned by gracious forethought. 
By polite ethics it would be ‘‘ bad taste” to visit 
the poor and do all that this minister did; but 
his was of a different order of taste to that, being 
allied to tenderness. 

It had all come of that creation of Self. Time — 
had been when he was impetuous as the rest of 
us, was infirm as most ; but he had undergone an 
ordeal that expunged the inequality. Now Deed 
was not less in his hand than Thought. Achieve- 
ment in all that it worked for itself, selfishly, was 
discarded, and sent with Exploit to the limbo of 
unused effort. In their place he used Action as 
an agent ever in subjection. 

It was the fashion to quote, to admire, and to 
eulogize this cultured writer and speaker, but it 
had a beginning when he came from out of the 
crowd, or from out of the pathless solitudes, or 
from the woods, or the sea, or forth from some 
huge city. How often is the earlier era known ? 
Men discover the teacher or the singer for them- 
selves, and leave his novitiate of struggle and 
agony until long after, when his story is written 
and his name goes down on the scroll; so here 
the Unknown spake, men listened, women loved, 
and the cultured, as quick to discover culture as 
to detect mauvais ton, instinctively became friends 
with the stranger. His Heronby and Guilmere 
credentials would have failed of accomplishing 
this unless allied with that power no credential 
confers. Really he cared little for the measure 
of popularity acquired ; it was the measure of good 
he was enabled todo. A home wreck will often 
produce a living soul that shall draw souls unto 
it,and guide such on to safety: this is the solu- 
tion of the mysterious ends permitting such ca- 
tastrophe; all grand character has undergone 
awful and fiery ordeal, and until then it is but 
forming. Possibly the secret of Garland’s suc- 
cess reposed in its tenderness—a quality very ab- 
sent from modern experience. Woman loves this 
especially, and it was immediately reeognized in 
the new speaker. Such as the tender Son of God 
preached, a divinity of delicate care for those es- 
entially needing tenderness; a language of exqui- 
site solicitude, musical with sensitive thoughtful- 
ness ; and from the time when He lived one lovely 


. A MODERN MINISTER. 


epic—half a dream of tender thought for our earth- 
ly well-being, half an ideal of the heaven he would 
have us live—there has been but too little imita- 
tion of this more gentle quality. Gentleness and 
charity are akin to tenderness, and share in the 
ministry of love. This preacher possessed these, 
and with them a sensitiveness that was peculiar, 
with nothing of sentiment about it, or shrinking, 
or straining for sympathy ; it was a sensitiveness 
of tenderness that a word might wound; of affec- 
tion, a look might warp; of love,a thought might 
cause to recoil; of courtesy, a misunderstanding 
might crush. 

It was characteristic and English that some 
people who could find no flaw or blemish in his 
life, no defect or weakness in his books, discerned 
a certain extravagance in his ¢é¢les—thought them 
misleading, sometimes far-fetched. Really his 
titles were secondary, but he never lied under their 
cover; he held, indeed, that a title, like a face, 
should be prepossessing to win favor; it might 
also, he thought, be graceful, to dwell upon the 
mind and linger long on the memory pleasautly. 
He considered it a card of introduction, which 
should be unique, and should possess a beautiful 
concentricity, or a sign indicating the character 
of the entertainment within, which ought there- 
fore to be in accord with good taste and the eti- 
quette of refinement. He deemed it the sensi- 
tive point of consistence between the writer and 
the public, believing good faith to be as requisite 
as fine delicacy. Like a Christian name, being 
most frequently used, it should be harmonious 
and winsome, for the affection of those often with 
it. As some hand-post directing the region to be 
traversed, or the ship’s book giving testimony of 
some prominent fellow-voyager, it decides the 
prepossessions almost immediately. He further 
thought that, like titles with men, it should enno- 
ble, be worthy of its inner self, as its inner self 
should be worthy of it. These were his opinions 
upon the title question, privately entertained and 
acted upon; in spite of which he had been unfor-. 
tunate enough to hit upon “far-fetched” and 
“extravagant” ones; and it is astonishing how 
few of us really can rejoice over having thought 
of every thing that will be agreeable to our crit- 
ics. How men would like each to be a little 
Providence to direct and ordain the well-being 
or the reverse of his fellows and their affairs! 
Addison said, “There is no defense against re- 
proach but obscurity; it is a kind of concomitant 
to greatness, as satires and invectives were an es- 
sential part of a Roman triumph.” How contra- 
dictory! here was a man emerged from obscurity 
to greatness to escape reproach: this is reversing 
the order of things, and outraging the essayists 
entirely. Surely the man should learn a sharp les- 
son from it. 

Failing his titles, they quarrelled with his in- 
vention: he was too imaginative, should have 
kept his fancy in a cage, like a tamed rat, and 
held his poetry down with rasping chains. Peo- 
ple of the Wriggle genus pronounced it all fool- 
ery, but none the less significant of the ways of 
Belial; styled him the follower of Baal, and dis- 
covered a striking resemblance between him and 
Balaam. People higher in the intellectual scale 
thought his style a little florid, and argued upon the 
“ matter-of-fact” premise; they were of opinion 
that this is not a poetic age, and held that the 
man with imagination which he dared to foist 


117 


upon his fellows was a sort of illegitimate poet, 
with a wallet of contraband picturing without the 
necessary license. Others held the imaginative 
faculty to be a species of ulcer of the mind—man 
to be avoided accordingly. Others appraised it 
as clap-trap of the tricksters, to be discounte- 
nanced strongly. The man with imagination has 
more enemies than the man with none. The 
property of invention is a mark of genius and a 
sign of power: it exalts its possessor to a posi- 
tion of exclusion, whereby he is safe from the 
approach of imitative followers; it stamps him 
by letters patent king of a country his own by 
discovery. A man may be a poet; a poet may be 
what is called great without it, but with it he is 
more—a composer, a creator. As soon forbid 
the man to think, and lock his poor writing ap- 
paratus away, as banish his fancy and control his 
invention. But if titles, and style, and imagina- 
tion found enemies, his religion’ found many 
friends, since it rested upon the basis of yielding 
much to others and reserving little for himself. 

After a day or two the reserve Constance had 
felt passed away, and she could enter into the 
domestic duties and the intellectual periods in 
his company without restraint. With freedom re- 
turned confidence; she could talk to him as in 
the old days, when he had been her adviser in 
matters of difficulty, the guide in matters of 
study, and the strong one to whom all her child- 
ish perplexities and troubles had been whisper- 
ed. At that day Lionel had little else to do, 
save devote himself to making wife and child 
and this gentle companion of both happy as the 
birds of spring-time. 

One evening Constance indirectly alluded to 
Ella; she wished to draw the conversation in the 
direction of the lady and her child, but scarcely 
knew how to set about it with sufficient delicacy. 
He fathomed her wish, and with a voice that 
trembled slightly, entered upon the topic. 

“You have been surprised, Constance, at find- 
ing me prominent in the world, and in the pos- 
session of wealth and honor, without the dear 
partner of my life being with me to share it? 
Allow me to go back in my history to the sad 
time of our trouble. This, you are aware, arose 
out of serious embarrassments. In the earlier 
years of our married life we entertained much 
company, and lived beyond limit of the economy 
demanded by the property left me by my moth- 
er. My tastes and pursuits, and a too warm- 
hearted hospitality, straitened my means, and 
with the endeavor to improve them in an evil 
moment I listened to the plausible counsel of 
one of our visitors, a man who professed much 
friendship, but whom I afterward discovered ‘to 
be in league with a persistent enemy who had 
resolved, and who really did accomplish, my ruin. 
This false adviser introduced to my considera- 
tion certain pretended philanthropic specula- 
tions which were to increase my slender wealth 
and perpetuate my honor; they enveloped me in 
debt and covered me with dishonor. At that 
day I had not the financial knowledge I have 
since taken the pains to acquire, and my com- 
parative ignorance, joined to my anxiety to bet- 
ter the position in which I was so unfortunately 
placed, made me a ready prey. I kept all from 
my wife, hoping, with the pitiful despair of those 
whose very life depends upon result, to extricate 
myself, without causing her the distress of know- 


‘ 


118 


ing all the full extent of our terrible extremity. 
Man’s supreme province has always seemed to 
me to be the duty of shielding, of warding off 
trouble when possible, of keeping big sorrows to 
himself. The usurers, with whom, alas! one 
forms acquaintance even before the walls of the 
University are out of sight, were indefatigable 
with offers of temporary aid, and as a worse evil 
I fell into the clutches of these, and a gigantic 
fraud was perpetrated, by which, caught in the 
toils, I was brought within power of the archen- 
emy of whom I have spoken. Then, indeed, my 
difficulties paralyzed me to contemplate. In that 
hour of thrice-felt horror and humiliation the 
speculations were brought up, and I was threat- 
ened with the additional exposure of common 
swindling. I was induced to place my affairs in 
the hands of an infamous attorney, and this 
misguided policy brought evils to their climax. 
Through it all I was unable to communicate with 
my father, owing to our unfortunate misunder- 
standing and the unrelenting nature of his feel- 
ing toward me in consequence. 

“Ella learned that I was ruined, others might 
add dishonored. I could not, could not meet her 
sad questioning eyes, and fled as one accursed, 
although, God knows, my crime had been a light 
one. The coming ruin, and that looming igno- 
miny which my enemy did not scruple to bring 
to my very door, filled my soul with a blackness 
of dread and sensitive anguish that must have 
unsettled my reason. Worn out by prolonged 
anxiety and suffering, unable to continue with 
my darlings so soon to be homeless, I at evening 
time quitted the dear old home, to return to it 
no more. I felt that once the cause of the en- 
mity between us was removed, my father would 
forgive Ella and receive her with our child; the 
hovering disgrace would still further lessen his 
opinion of myself, but he might forgive her. 
Thus confronted by the horrible ordeal of the 
criminal courts if I remained, there was before 
me the alternative of flight or death. The former 
was more repulsive than the latter, for I was tru- 
ly sick unto death of my life. Lost to surround- 
ings in that morbid, brooding dejection, I took 
the lonely path leading from our garden to the 
sea, to find myself face to face with my enemy, 
prowling thereabout in expectation doubtless of 
my being driven to some such desperate course. 
With him was a man as fiend-like and more bru- 
tal. I would have avoided them, but they im- 
peded my retreat, and by nameless insult goaded 
me to expression of my anger. I can not tell 
what I said or did, for between that dreadful 
time and now a merciful blank is interposed. I 
can recall the happiness of oblivion, the ecstasy 
of the total loss of remembrance. When con- 
sciousness returned it was to find myself the ob- 
ject of a ministering tenderness so pure and holy, 
it was as though I had been rescued from death 
and darkness by an instrument of Heaven itself. 
It was Lady Guilmere, of whom until then I knew 
but little, and was far from suspecting all the 
sublime depth of character. Her ladyship nursed 
me through stages not of bodily weakness only, 
but of mental crises also; she awakened hope, 
having saved life, revived interest, vital interest, 
in it, and filled my soul with a purpose. She 
had learned much in my delirium, and I told her 
all. I heard that the world supposed me dead. 
“ Now is the time,’ said my friend, ‘to commence 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


life anew; with your talents and attainments un- 
der another name you may clear.the honor of the 
old. Reveal your purpose to no one, not even to 
your wife at present; but enter boldly upon some 
public arena, and should your identity be discoy- 
ered by any who have known you, take them into 
your confidence, or I will for you.. A great future 
is open, avail yourself of it, trust in God, have 
faith in Him, have faith in self, and fear not.’ 

“Tt was a project of such daring there is no 
wonder if on the sick-bed I viewed it with doubt 
and hesitation ; but as I recovered strength the old 
love of mine for the ministry was fanned into 
flame—a flame that will no more be extinguished 
this side the grave. I grew better quickly; the 
design, as she believed it would, fed my restoration 
to health. . 

“T intended only keeping the truth from Ella 
for a brief season while I was entering heart and 
soul into the work and preparing for our future. 
Of Lady Guilmere’s sympathy, encouragement, 
and help, it is useless to attempt to speak ; no de 
scription would exhaust it, nor do it justice. You 
know I am not impetuous ; do nothing without well 
weighing consequences, and applying all the fore- 
thought possible. After mature deliberation and 
solemn conviction I accepted with new life, con- 
ferred after passing half-way through the shadowy 
valley, a new name, designing with this to restore 
the honor and fairness of the old, not only in the 
sight of my fellows, but also in that of my family, 
with whom I made the resolution not to commu- 
nicate until I could do so without shame and suf- 
fering. I relied upon my father (when the cause 
of his grave anger should be no more) repenting 
of his sternness, and taking Ella and our little one 
to live with him at the Park.. Alas for the forti- 
tude of the heart when it has to struggle with the 
affections, I found my task beyond my strength! 
My whole soul went yearningly forth toward the 
dear ones. 
probably, and render my labor of non-avail; but it 
was more almost than I could bear, to be separated 
from them. Prudence whispered, ‘It is but for 
a little while; be firm, be patient; consecrate the 
present to the good work you are rescued from 
darkness to perform, and which shall lead you to 
the light fairer for the intermediate exercise of 
denial and devotion.’ But my heart murmured, 
‘It is my wife, my child!’ Then answered the 
new advocate, speaking for my duty and my hon- 
or, ‘The service you are engaged upon is greater 
than any earthly tie!’ and the passage in the Gos- 
pel would come vividly to mind, ‘ And every one 
that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, 
or father, or wife, or children, or lands, for my 
name’s sake, shall receive a hundredfold, and 
shall inherit everlasting life.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘I 
have not done this ; my sacrifice is of earthly and 
interested nature.’ ‘The grosser sacrifice,’ replied 
the voice, ‘is merged in the loftier priesthood, 
with abnegation of the old and creation of a new 
self.’ Then, I said, I was a fugitive from suffer- 
ing when called, at war with my own existence, 
and outraging my merciful Creator. ‘So was 
Saul,’ said the voice, ‘a greater than thou in all 
bad deed and in all good work.’ Then I put for- 
ward the secular work for the increase of money. 
and I received this reply, ‘It is means to an end, 
and the end is good.’ I left the argument, dedi- 
cated every energy to my ministry in the highest 
sense possible, endeavored to work good in con- 


It would imperil the whole scheme. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


junction with unselfish care for all, and, with the 
active business of an honest man, applied myself 
by every effort to increasing my store of treasury, 
- wherewith to discharge the claim that wrecked 
our happy home. Man has sharp lessons to learn 
during life, but none more so than conquering the 
world, erucifying the flesh, and fighting the devil. 
Yet I am sorry to tell you, after it all, the chance 
resemblance to mine of some little one in my con- 
gregation leaves me weaker than any woman. 
So much for human nature; clearly the strength 
is unequal to that needed by the will. Were my 
darlings—for the present lost to me—only recov- 
ered, I fear my plans would crumble, every one 
of them, and I should waive all in my yearning to 
have them with me.” 

““T should think so,” was the simple rejoinder, 
so softly uttered, yet so full of thought for the 
absent. There was a pause; then Constance 
said— 

“T can not see it right at all; the woman is 
the helpmate, and her place is by her husband’s 
side, if under a hundred names. Ella would not 
have refused to share this public exile, and, if 
necessary, for a time this change of name; and 
I can not see how her presence would have 
jeopardized new prospects.” 

“No,” said the Minister, thoughtfully; “but 
you are looking at it from one side, and I from 
the other. I suffered more than you or any one 
could understand those last days at Torquay. To 
one of my nature it is a// to stand in the presence 
of the loved without a reflection upon one’s hon- 
or, and it was for this I designed to wait. Too 
late I learned that, through Ella’s or my father’s 
fault, the reconciliation I depended upon had not 
taken place, and that they had quitted the spot, 
no one knew whither, but not in poverty. I paid 
a flying visit to the old home, leaving money with 
my child. I hope the enemy who hath wrought 
. this evil thing may never suffer the pangs I ex- 
perienced that night of my visit to the despoiled 
home. It would pain your gentle soul were I to 
describe to you the scene.’ 

“Yes. I called before it happened, and once 
afterward, but Ella would not see me.” 

“Poor thing! Poor thing! I understand it 
would be impossible.” 

“‘T think, for all you have said, it has been a 
hazardous experiment, which by a very narrow 
line is divided from being a cruel one. You were 
greatly loved:” 

What emotion was underlying her words, and 
how the love she herself felt came out upon the 
utterance ! 

“And to think I was so little worthy! Why, 
even our Constance, who loved me then, has turn- 
ed colder to me now!” 

She flushed, not daring to lift her eyes, but she 
was very honest and ingenuous, and replied, with 
an exquisite sincerity, ‘““You mistake; I love you 
very dearly, shall love you all my life, more than 
any body in the world!” It terminated passion- 
ately, with an outburst of tears. He was greatly 
moved; there was such depth of devotion, such 
a world of long-treasured sacred idealism. It was 
grateful to him, fragrant as incense of lilies—it 
could not be otherwise loving her—but it was 
embarrassing and delicate, that no semblance of 
advantage should be taken, no shadow of encour- 
agement be given, yet that this young fresh love 
should not be wounded, or even blown upon by a 


119 


breath too cold and coarse in his opinion to come 
in contact, so rarely did he think of it. Imper- 
ceptibly he had become placed in a sensitive 
position when a movement either way seemed 
fraught with peril and outlined by pain. Elo- 
quent as the words were, she had not thought to 
reveal her secret, but it was borne upon them as 
thistle-down is borne on summer air, and floated 
toward him lightly, beautifully, and unmistak- 
ably. How to act in this emergency of vibrating 
chords ? 

“Tt is kind of you to say so, and your words 
find responsive echo in my heart, with the ten- 
der caring love of some watchful brother whose 
affection could not be at once more pure, more 
binding. You will ever think of me, look on me, 
as one who gives you a heart’s choicest and most 
affectionate sympathy. I will cherish the re- 
membrance of this as one of the sacred experi- 
ences preserved in the hallowed recesses of my 
heart.” 

** And you will love me a little?” 

“« Always, Constance, as I would a» sister, or 
some friend whose leaning upon me rendered ‘the 
love sacred.” 

‘“‘Such love is worthless; a mere aequaintance 
may claim that. Yours should be different, for it 
represents all in the world worth living for, and 
I can’t help saying so.” : 

His pale cheek tinted a deepening glow while 
he replied— 

““What can I say to you, how act, dear Con- 
stance? The treasure of your love is deeply 
welcome to me, and lightens up the weariness of 
life with more grateful pleasure than I can de- 
scribe to you. I am all unworthy of it, and un- 
able beyond the limits I have explained to return 
it; yet all that is mine to give is yours, and on 
those conditions I accept this young and beauti- 
ful affection, so pure and devoted. Do not fear; 
I will never divulge this sacred pledge, nor hold 
it valueless. So long as it is a joy to you this 
house shall be your home, I, all that you would 
wish. Ever alone, yet never alone, you may live 
upon earth a life consecrated to that ideal good- 
ness, dim in every heart of girlhood, yet which 
few possess the courage to confirm as you have 
done. Ever lean upon me; I will never fail with 
my support.” 

Thus with gentle tact he placed that ideal 
goodness in advance of himself; then their talk 
wandered back to Ella; the haunting influence 
seemed to. affect his every thought. 

Constance resumed her work, happier; he was 
a confidant now, and that promise of his was 
sweet. She recovered her cheerfulness, and her 
eyes were often lifted all alight with gratitude 
and pleasure. 

———_~_>———__—— 


CHAPTER XXVII. 
EVER ALONE, YET NEVER ALONE. 


“To-DAY.” . 

A letter addressed ‘‘ Mrs. Esther Thompson, 
care of Sir Horace Vivian,” had filled that lady 
with vague, unaccountable misgivings. A wom- 
an’s handwriting, and signed ‘“ An* Unknown 
Friend.” She was to meet the writer if she 
would hear something of importance concerning 
the dead. The message was mysterious, unset- 
tling ; sufficient to send a flash of agony to heart 


120 


and brain, but not sufficient to acquaint her with 
one particular, only that she was to meet the 
writer—“ to-day.” The appointment was to be 
held at a house in Gray’s Inn Road, and the 
writer requested that strict confidence might be 
observed. 

To decline going was impossible; worked up 
to a feverish pitch, utterly perplexed, wondering, 
distressed, the old wound re-opened, the great 
sorrow renewed, Mrs. Travers could but kiss her 
child with emotion, say she was only going a lit- 
tle way and would soon return, and hurry on. 
Ella was surprised by her mother’s curious con- 
duct and wished to accompany her, but this she 
would not permit. 

Dull and lonely the child sat in their room 
awaiting her mother’s return. Lady Vivian and 
her daughters had accompanied Sir Horace upon 
his morning drive, so the house seemed very still 
and dull. Presently a maid came to her, saying 
a person at the back entrance wished to speak 
with her. 

Trembling, the child hastened to the court, 
where a respectable-looking woman held a letter. 
It was in the handwriting of her mother, and the 
child started with apprehension : 

“Come to me at once, darling. I have sent 
the servant to bring you here.” 

“TY will run and put on my hat and jacket.” 

“You will not be long, if you please, miss.” 
Ella hastened away and returned almost immedi- 
ately. The two set forth. 


When Mrs. Travers arrived at the house of 
meeting, she was ushered into a shabby - gen- 
teel parlor, where an elaborately dressed female 
with a profusion of blonde hair received her po- 
litely, begging she would be seated, and closing 
the door with excess of care. This person, in 
whom the reader recognizes Mrs. Bartholomew 
Rolf, opened her business in what she was pleased 
to think was a business-like manner. 

“When two women, madam, unacquainted 
with each other, meet upon a delicate subject, of 
vital interest to one of them, it is preferable to 
dispense with formality and speak to one anoth- 
er frankly, as two women may when confronted 
by calamity or discovery.” 

Mrs. Travers could only bow, astonished at 
this ominous preamble, her heart beating, and 
breathing with difficulty; she experienced the 
suffocating feeling so dangerous, but which hap- 
pily does not visit one often. 

“‘T must ask you to summon all your fortitude 
to your aid, and to suppress the natural weak- 
ness of our sex, which leads us to become hys- 
terical when apprised of that which shocks.” 

“TI promise to preserve my self-control, mad- 
am. Ihave been well disciplined in trouble, be- 
lieve me.” What blasting revelation touching 
poor Lionel’s character and honor was forth- 
coming ? 

“As you may have gathered from my brief 
note, I am about to communicate something you 
should have known before. It concerns Mr, Li- 
onel Travers !” 

“JT judged so. You will pardon me, I am suf- 
fering terrible suspense: do not prolong it un- 
necessarily.” 

“T am sorry to say I am compelled to do so, 
until we can send for your little girl; the child’s 
presence is requisite.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“This is very strange,” said Mrs. Travers, much 
surprised; “she wished to come with me, but I 
would not allow it. I shall prefer my child not 
hearing any reflection upon her dead father’s 
honor.” 

“It is entirely in your own hands, madam, 
whether you hear it yourself. My time is much 
occupied, and I have none to waste. At some per- 
sonal inconvenience I was about to do you a serv- 
ice—at least most women would take it in that 
light—but I am not in the least particular about 
it. Our interview can close, or you can write a line 
to your little girl; my servant will take it and 
bring the child at once.” 

The blonde arose impatiently, so as to inti- 
mate that she meant no nonsense, standing ei- 
ther to open the door or ring the bell. Writing 
materials were upon the table, and Mrs, Travers 
wrote that note. Of course this was a ruse to 
obtain possession of the child, who being secured 
elsewhere in the hands of Bartholomew, he sent 
the servant to her mistress to say that the young 
lady would rather not come with a stranger. 

“T will go for her, I shall not be long,” said 
Mrs. Travers, rising. 

“Yes, but then we shall lose time. It is dread- 
fully provoking ; perhaps, after all, I had better 
go on with it.” 

Again with excess of care she went to the door 
to see it was tightly fast and returned to her 
seat. Mrs. Travers’s feelings all this time may be 
imagined. 

“‘T shall be sorry,” commenced the blonde, “‘ to 
pain you, but can not altogether avoid it. Mine 
is an embarrassing duty, but I must execute it to 
the best of my poor ability. Iam not a refined 
person, ma’am, was never educated in the deli- 
cate office of breaking news, good or bad, there- 
fore if I’m blunt impute it to my ignorance. I 
will ask you first to think of all the bad ones you 
have ever heard of, with all the deceptions and. 
impostures possible to recall, and it will in some 
way prepare you for the extraordinary piece of 
intelligence you are about to hear.” 

To describe the effect of this preliminary 
coarseness upon that sensitive lady would be out 
of the question; she was as one petrified. It 
seemed sacrilege; to listen to it, a heinous out- 
rage. That such a preface should introduce 
aught of her dead hero, that idolized husband, 
whom she thought of as with the angels that 
shouid, have been his earthly company, seemed 
such shocking desecration, that she was as one 
stricken by some sudden blow of so unusual a 
kind it could scarcely be realized. Her soul re- 
coiled at the despoiling atmosphere, and she was 
completely prostrate. 

“To some extent what I am about to say will 
appear incredible; fortunately I am prepared with 
testimony. When living at Eagle Hall for the 
last few years you were often visited by Miss 
Evelyn, a clergyman’s daughter ?” 

‘Miss Evelyn was my attached friend. - I knew 
her from the time when she was quite a child.” 

“Tt was a dangerous acquaintance for your 
husband, who came to love this girl.” 

“My husband always loved her,” replied Mrs. 
Travers, with composure, but speaking Sainaiga 
‘“‘Constance Evelyn was as one of our family.” 

“Your husband loved her with a guilty love” 

“That is untrue, most wickedly untrue!” cried 
the victim, writhing under this fiendish torture. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Without heeding the interruption Mrs. Rolf pro- 
‘ceeded. 

“And when, deprived of means, he could no 
longer provide for her, as even you know he had 
been wont to do—” 

_ “My husband supplied the cost of her educa- 

tion, madam, about which I was first consulted.” 

The other plodded sturdily on with her nar- 
rative, regardless of the explanation. ‘ He con- 
ceived a project of extravagant daring, and was 
successful in carrying it out. It was to counter- 
feit a suicide’s death, begin life afresh under an- 
other name, which, assisted by influential accom- 
plices, and making use of his cleverness and 
talent, was for him a matter of comparative ease. 
Then, with money, and released from yourself 
and your child, he was at liberty to take any li- 
cense. He took it, sent for the girl, and is liv- 
ing with her now in the most strict retirement.” 

Oh no, she was not to faint under this! Would 
such relief could have been! With veins like 

knotted cords, and fiery currents making her feel 
how life may know sharp anguish when to faint 
would be to rest, she was exquisitely alive to the 
instant torture of that moment. 

It took a little while to comprehend the ex- 

treme meaning. There were two most wonder- 
ful revelations. To be told that Lionel lived was 
so amazing and sudden a disclosure as almost to 
benumb the faculties and prevent consciousness 
of that other most wretched charge; but as that, 
too, dawned upon her mind, and with it the 
_ thought that an unusually bad man might per- 
form under exceptional circumstances what had 
been attributed to him, she sickened before the 
whole, but only one instant; then she rose from 
her seat, and calmly thanked the woman for her 
unsolicited information. 

“What you have told me, madam, has not 
made me much happier. If you are deceiving 
me, I doubt if forgiveness will be extended for so 
dark a sin; if not, and you be instead deceived, 
think for an instant of my suffering now, who 
loved him with a tenderness surpassing that com- 
mon in the world. You did not know him, or, 
even in error, or even purposely, you would not 
trifle with his name or with his memory. But 
all you have uttered is so improbable that its 
falseness is borne upon the face of it. I put it 
to you, does it sound reasonable, madam? Ad- 
mitting all of it, I know his love for me and for 
our child was such that he cowld not, if for that 
alone, act as you say.” . 

“Well, it’s very svon settled and proved, and 
_ without great inconvenience to yourself. A jour- 
~ ney will do it, of fifty miles by rail and some half 
dozen by hired vehicle, and I will show you the 
man himself and the girl; not, mark you, in any 
uncertain, accidental company, but alone togeth- 
er, by their own fireside, and comfortable enough, 
I bet a crown, while the good wife’s out at serv- 
ice!” 

The lady’s eyes flashed angrily; this was no 
small threat; its tremendous yet vulgar sarcasm 
might have goaded a saint; it literally seemed 
to turn the whole current of this lady’s being. 
Trembling from head to foot with agitation, and 
scarcely able to address the other with common 
civility, she contrived to say, “If that is to be 
seen, I most certainly ought to see it. I will go 
with you; let us not lose one minute. Iam dress- 
ed and ready to depart, now, now; or will you 


121 


unsay the dreadful words, tell me you have de- 
ceived me, that you are in error, that my hearing 
is failmg me, that one of us is mad ?” 

“No, thank you, I would rather not. You must 
have patience; one can’t start on a journey like 
this as though merely going to the Strand; an- 
other thing, you surely don’t suppose I am doing 
you this friendly service for the love of you, whom 
I don’t care the snap of a finger for? A variety 
of people have their price and I have mine, and 
I’m the last person in the world to work for noth- 
ing. Jewelry’s cheap enough, but dress and fash- 
ion’s expensive, and must be kept up, together 
with an establishment, to say nothing of support- 
ing a carriage, for one can’t go trailing skirts 
through London mud when it’s possible to ride. 
I must know first what you’ll consider my re- 
ward.” 

This was candor with a vengeance, the very 
brutality of business. Poor soul! she had little 
to give, only the few miserable pounds she had 
scraped together to assist in clearing the debts of 
loved, lost Lionel. But she was told he lived, had 
wealth; she would not need them then, and she 
laughed bitterly. In her heart, however, she did 
not credit the woman’s word; some common ad- 
venturess living by her wits, who had discovered 
her sorrow and would make market of her grief ; 
but those savings were too hardly got together to 
be parted with so easily ; she just said— 

“T will go with you, and return with you. Jf 
what you say be true, the little in my possession 
shall be yours.” 

“Well, I suppose I must be content with that. 
You’ve enough for our return first-class fares ?” 

“T don’t know how muchit is; I have a couple 
of pounds in my purse.” 

“We shall manage, I dare say. Tl goand put 
my things on.” 

She went and put her things on, and was a long 
time about it; then came down and invited the 
lady to have some bottled beer, which, being de- 
clined, the energetic Mrs. Rolf quaffed the con- 
tents of the bottle herself. In the passage she 
took affectionate farewell of a showily dressed 
girl, of some fourteen years, whom, next to ex- 
tensive display in the matter of apparel, she was 
more fond of than any thing else in the world. 
A very pretty, very bold and self-confident, very 
superficial, very noticeable, very forward, yet, 
when she liked, very pleasing girl; and, after 
making allowance for her miserable, frivolous, 
and sinful bringing up, in no sense so bad as 
might have been expected, either in morals or 
manners. One of the problems of the great city 
is, how a child, reared from the first in an atmos- 
phere of depravity, surrounded by every abomi- 
nable influence, with her natural protectors, who 
ought to be an example, setting a pattern of 
odious type, as is often seen, how such a one ac- 
quires or preserves a particle of good. This 
young person was known as Edith Lessie, her 
mother, before the Bartholomew Rolf era, hav- 
ing been familiarly known upon the turf as the 
wife of James Hart Lessie, the notorious betting 
man, who committed suicide after a fearful run 
of ill-luck. His lady (who, by-the-way, did not 
wait for this, but decamped with characteristic 
foresight immediately the fortune began to turn) 
transferred her affections with her millinery bills, 
and threw the child in, to Bartholomew Rolf, who 
became the possessor of the lot. It proved a very 


122 


bad lot, but in this they were well mated. Mr. 
Lessie had been a mere ordinary blackleg; Mr. 
Rolf was an accomplished scoundrel in the very 
zenith of his villainy; and Mrs. Lessie, who ad- 
mired this sort of thing, held her present owner 
in becoming respect. 

In this rank garden feuristied the poor flower 
which, with other cultivation, would have been 
one of singular grace; yet all the beauty and 
freshness remained, and the child was growing 
with many a seed of good hidden away from 
sight, notwithstanding that she feared Barthol- 
omew and despised her mother. 

Mrs. Rolf led the way to an adjoining cab-rank, 
and selected a yellow hansom, in which they were 
driven to London Bridge, the lady leaning back 
with a handkerchief to her face, and exchanging 
no word with her unsympathetic companion. At 
the terminus, Mrs. Rolf, without ceremony, pur- 
chased a’ traveller’s bottle of brandy, and thus 
provided for the journey seated herself with an 
air of comfort, the quivering, shaken mortal be- 
fore her, faint with agony of mind and _ horri- 
ble suspense, feeling half unable to enter upon 
that hour or more of waiting. It seemed a long 
and terrible journey, made doubly long by the 
uncertainty attending its issue. Mind upon the 
rack the whole way, eyes never daring to lift to the 
kind gaze of strangers, who’ saw this was no com- 
mon trouble, and would have interchanged some 
word of interest and pity. A wearying time, all 
linked from beginning to end with stifling pangs, 
leaving her weak and smitten upon arrival. 

The guide hired a vehicle, asking the driver his 
‘fare to some place, the name of which the lady 
failed to hear, and they were driven down a street 
known as Trafalgar Street, which is one of the 
main thoroughfares to and from the station, and 
communicates with the northern division of the 
town. Past an elegant church, one of Sir Charles 
Barry’s graceful poems in stone, past a wide 
space planted round with a double avenue of trees, 
they reached higher ground, where a line of elms 
bordered a pathway, and in summer-time yielded 
pleasant shade to the row of houses built upward 
on the high and healthy site; at the end of this 
was a noble building, for extent, situation, and 
architecture having no equalin the kingdom. The 
woman with blonde hair, on putting her head out 
of the carriage window and asking what the build- 
ing was, learned this to be the work-house, where- 
at she withdrew suddenly. Ina few minutes they 
were upon a white road traversing the height of 
downland, a superb extent of scenery outspread 
on either hand: one had no soul for this, the other 
no heart, andthe verdant panorama was unrolled 
for nothing : still, the keen fresh air revived the 
lady, and the clearer blue, the fairer light, even 
of brilliant transparency in the afternoon, seemed 
to speak to her troubled spirit and to say, “ Be 
not mocked, however gloomy thy life; a clear be- 
yond awaits thee; there are heights as well as 
depths. Heaven is bright as ever it was; itis only 
the fleeting clouds prevent its being seen.” 

It seemed a long drive, the way by road was 
circuitous, but they reached the village between 
five and six o’clock, putting up at the Grange Inn, 
the landlady thereof herself going to the door to 
receive her distinguished guests. In her opinion 
the showy lady was evidently the mistress and the 
other the maid, and the blonde, in consequence, 
met with obsequious attention, pleasing her much. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


The lady was thus enabled to escape to their 
chamber, where once alone she burst into a flood 
of passionate tears, and experienced their saving 
relief. The dressy lady down stairs explained 
they were not going to stay all night, but would 
require tea, after which they were going to make 
a call; and upon their return would want some 
brandy and water and biscuits, and the horse to 


be put in immediately for their journey back, all 


of which Mrs. Payne engaged to have done. 

It was evident to Mrs. Payne that the Grange 
Inn was rising in popularity, was becoming known, 
would go down to posterity in guide-books and 
Bradshaw as one of the famous hostelries of the 
world; and Mrs. Payne resolved to spare no ef- 
fort toward maintaining this better order of things. 
“Adter all, why not ?” murmured the good wom- 
an. “People run to see far less pretty and less 
interesting places. The Bishop’s House alone is a 
picture ; and as for the Grange, well—” But aft- 
er mentioning the Grange the relict of the worthy 
Jabez stopped, as people generally did. She bus- 
tled about preparing the tea, and a highly eredit- 
able meal was presented, what with home-made 
bread, fresh butter, new milk, eggs from the poul- 
try-yard at the rear, ham of her own curing, and 
cakes of her own baking, together with tea and 
coffee of the best; and when the becomingly at- 
tired waitress went up stairs to the second tray- 
eller, and informed her of tea being ready, it was 
a great disappointment to Mrs. Payne to be re- 
quested to send a cup of tea up stairs. However, 
the dressy lady made up for it, and satisfied Mrs. 


Payne to the utmost by the justice done to her © 


viands, . 

The presence of this elaborately costumed lady 
would have caused commotion in the village had 
she appeared, but it suited her tactics to remain 
perfectly private until some time after dusk had 
fallen, then to set forth in company with her un- 
happy travelling companion, to whom it was the 
torture of being led to execution. And up to the 
last moment Mrs. Travers was indignantly opposed 
to believing the woman’s account, although stag- 
gered by the persistent, deep-seated purpose at 


the bottom of it. 


The shadowy old Grange, standing back among 
its trees, and the black water with that hideous 
boat, chilled the lady with a premonitory sense 
of the horrible. Mrs. Rolf lost no time indulging 
in such feelings, or noticing those of her compan- 
ion, her main object being to preserve the finery 
which was so important an element of herself. 
She endeavored to secure this by gathering up 
the extensively frilled silk, stepping boldly into 
the boat, and sitting upon her under-skirts. 
lady was left to seat herself as best she could, 
and very much in the damp. 

Mrs. Bartholomew Rolf possessed the muscle of 
a prize-fighter or a Westmoreland wrestler, and 
sent off their lumbering craft with the expedition 
of a coal barge in its best and most sportive mood. 
When the door to the cellar passage was reached 
and unlocked with the key in her possession, the 
blonde impressively begged her companion to 
keep close and utter no sound, whatever she 
might see or hear, and to retire with her imme- 
diately when satisfied, or feeling her strength 
unequal to remaining longer. The lady having 
faintly promised this, they went on. The door 
admitting to the cellar was unfastened, had been 
so left by Noel Barnard, and this dark area cross- 


The - 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ed, the back kitchen was reached, and here Mrs. 
Rolf experienced the first uneasiness, for she had 
been instructed by her employer to remain there, 
should the servants be in the other kitchen, until 
they quitted it for their domestic duties. The 
servants were not in the kitchen, being occupied 
up stairs, and a fire was burning in the grate. 
The woman led the way past into a passage 
branching from a spacious hall, and crossed this 
cautiously, opening a door with stealthy absence 
of sound. It was covered with a thick curtain, 
falling from above to the carpet. Suddenly she 
felt her companion cling to her as though for 
support. The lady heard her husband’s voice. 


YY \ 


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SA a 
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: 


TEATS 


<= 


—— 


th 


123 


somehow—sad, and more tender, and the voice 
sounded different. Always musical, it was now 
a broken cadence of deep feeling, exquisite emo- 
tion, and it shook her mightily; and but for the 
words, and that other sitting by him, her needle- 
work laid down, and tearful—but for that the 
wife, no longer widow, the wife stirred to a new 
strong interest in life and the living, must have 
rushed to his side and fallen upon her knees be- 
fore him while sobbing forth her joy; but that 
other stayed this, checked the torrent of over- 
whelming glad and sad surprise, and arrested her 
with outraged dread, 

‘‘What can I say to you, how act, dear Con- 


“Ty WAS ALL TOO CLEAR, AND THE LADY FELT AS IF HER VERY LIFE WAS PASSING FROM HER 
DURING THAT SUPREME AGONY.”’ 


_ Tt was a large oak-panelled room, with a long 

half-unfolded screen, similar to those at one time 
general in country houses, drawn across at a few 
feet from the door. 

The occupants of the room were talking at the 
far end, and the woman raised the curtain a lit- 
tle, then lightly stepped forward, beckoning her 
victim to the screen, through the divisions of 
which they could obtain a view of all that was 
passing. There were waxen lights and a large 
and cheerful fire, so that there was no difficulty 
in seeing. It was all too clear, and the lady felt 
as if her very life was passing from her during 
that supreme agony. For he was there, with his 
majestic face, paler, more thoughtful, and aged, 
but thrilling her as she gazed upon him, and still- 
ing her heart’s beating with the suddenness; and 
yet she had been prepared. But he was different 


stance? The treasure of your love is deeply wel- 
come to me, and lightens up the weariness of life 
with more grateful pleasure than I can describe 
to you. Iam all unworthy of it, and unable be- 
yond the limits I have explained to return it; yet 
all that is mine to give is yours, and on those 
conditions I accept this young and beautiful. af- 
fection, so pure and devoted. Do not fear; I will 
never divulge this sacred pledge, nor hold it val- 
ueless. So long as it is a joy to you this house 
shall be your home, I, all that you would wish. 
Ever alone, yet never alone, you may live upon 
earth a life consecrated to that ideal goodness, 
dim in every heart of girlhood, yet which few pos- 
sess the courage to confirm as you have done. 
Ever lean upon me; I will never fail with my sup- 
ort.” 
i These were the words uttered by the man sit- 


124 


ting before that Grange fireside, overheard by 
the wife whom, even as he spoke, he had first 
in mind and heart all the time; but they sound- 
ed to her a very damning knell of perfidy and 
woe, and so amazing that, had not her own ears 
heard, she never could or would have duly credit- 
ed their meaning. ‘“ Ever alone, yet never alone:” 
the words seemed to ring and symbolize the fu- 
ture of herself. She feebly intimated to the im- 
passive woman who had disclosed this dark chap- 
ter that she was willing to depart, and they with- 
drew as they had entered, silently and unseen. 

How she contrived to seat herself in the boat 
or walk the silent village street she never knew ; 
for she was as one dreaming, and but for being 
led, would have stood or sunk, wondering and 
powerless, 

This thing was all so strange, common trou- 
bles and griefs fled from its side as having no 
kin. She had borne her widowhood, sharp and 
poignant though it had been, and yet having no 
~ friend nor comforter to soothe by so much as a 
word, save her thoughtful child. And that false 
friend had come to gloat upon the misery cause- 
less. How glad she felt now that she had re- 
fused the false support this Constance Evelyn 
had offered when she called upon her in her hour 
of sore trial! Other women had trials, nay, she 
had heard of other women’s husbands neglecting 
and deserting them; but this was not like such 
ordinary baseness: it had no precedent, and its 
marvellous surrounding of daring cast a mystery 
over it which utterly dumfounded her. Why had 
he not left the country with this youthful sharer 
of his guilt, as others did? But no; he was liy- 
ing upon the same sea-board, at a slender jour- 
ney’s distance, open and bare to public scrutiny, 
his only concealment the change of name. The 
more these thoughts flashed and crowded upon 
her, the more enveloped in startling and inscru- 
table mystery it became. But human nature, 
bearing much, will not endure beyond a given 
point, and this delicate lady’s strength gave way 
suddenly in the village street. It was some dis- 
tance from the inn, and by the garden railing of 
a pretty cottage, where the blinds were drawn, 
and within which a piano was being softly play- 
ed, while a lady’s voice sang some sacred melody. 
Mrs. Rolf, deducing quickly | that people who play 
and sing ‘sacred melodies on a week-day evening 
are sure to be of Samaritan tendencies, proceed- 
ed to the door and knocked, and when a little 
serving-maid came to the summons, explained 
that a lady had become faint, would she ask her 
mistress if she might be brought in untii recoy- 
ered? The music ceased; a pleasant lady dress- 
ed in mourning came into the passage, accompa- 
nied by a youth, whom, from the resemblance of 
refined features and gentle manners, it was easy 
to see was her son; and when they heard the 
request, they went into the garden and helped to 
raise and bear the stranger to the house, where 
she was placed upon a sofa and treated with con- 
siderate tenderness. 

“Tm glad I didn’t have this bother in Brigh- 
ton or London,” was Mrs. Bartholomew’s thought, 
with characteristic want of feeling, champing and 
fuming impatiently to be off, and fearing she 
would lose the return train to town. “Are you 
better, dear ?”? she murmured in her victim’s ear, 
opining it would be more consistent to use an 
affectionate term or two. The sufferer neither 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


heard nor understood, was motionless as the 
dead, but not free from pain, as the poor face 
proved; and the kind lady of the house, under- 
standing it all too well, leaned over her with 


deep pity, and told the red-faced, golden-haired 


person that she must not be removed that night. 

“But my goodness me!” cried Mrs. Rolf, in 
dire alarm, “the woman owes me a lot of money, 
which I might never see the light of ; apart from 
which it’s of no interest to me whether she goes 
or stops.” 

Mrs. Evans had looked closely at the two, and 
feared all was not as it should be. 

“Well, you can not press your claim while the 
lady lies in this state; her recovery is of the first 
importance, and after that your business, what- 
ever it is.” 

“That’s your opinion, but it isn’t mime. I 
hold people should pay their debts, and take their 
pleasure afterward with what’s left. Ive given 
up the greater part of this blessed day to her, 
and likely seems my reward. Next time I doa 
person a service I’ll take care to see the money 
first. But since she’s so well off here, and likely 
to be a worry to me, I'll go on without her. Only 
let my lady get over this little bit, and if I know 
her address—and it ain’t likely to be out of our 
Directory—Tll be down on her like a door-nail, 
sharp!” With which eccentric vituperation, Mrs. 
Rolf flung herself out of the cottage and march- 
ed down the street to the inn, at the rear of 
which she stirred up her man, and was quickly 
upon the road to Brighton. 

“ Bertie darling,” said Mrs. Evans, much shock- 
ed at the violence and selfishness of the person, 
and much relieved by her departure, “there has 
been some terrible wrong done here, I am con- 
vinced of it. This is a lady of gentle usage, and 
even now suffering from some recent trial. Every 
care shall be taken of her. Poor thing! do you 
notice she wears mourning?” She sat down be- 
side her, the white hands clasped to convey some 
of the speaker’s warmth ; the boy standing close, 
solicitous, and grave. 

Presently her eyes opened. ‘‘ Where is she, 
that dreadful woman ?” ' 

Mrs. Evans looked meaningly at her son, while 
replying, tenderly— 


‘ You: are with friends, and alone: ” It seem- 


ed to stir some painful memory, for the invalid — 


repeated, ‘‘ Ever alone, yet never alone.” 


——— 


CHAPTER XXVIII 
BERTIE EVANS STORMS THE, CITADEL. 


HAWKINGDEAN heard, and with regret, that the 
master of the Bishop’s House lay ill. With all 
his peculiarity and gruffness, Geoffrey Hamilton 
was well-beloved, and the awe which the downs- 
men and their good-wives felt, blended with this 
grateful affection, did not spoil the general sor- 
row when it was known that he lay sick, and had 
neither doctor nor nurse other than his devoted 
little daughter. The recluse held both these in 
sovereign contempt, and if he had desired either, 
they were not to be obtained nearer than Brigh- 
ton. 

“Just what I feared,” said the old pastor, 
walking thoughtfully home from his daily visit. 
“FT told him he wanted a change of scene, and 


ai 


- A MODERN 


rest for the mind, and now it may take an un- 
favorable turn, and prove a really serious illness, 
instead of the slight indisposition he prefers to 
consider it. Not but that I would readily accept 
a far worse one than this for the delight of be- 
ing nursed by so tender and thoughtful a child.” 
The latching of his garden gate did not shut out 
the thought of his little sweetheart, whose ex- 
quisite- ministry of considerate delicacy dwelt 
with too welcome an intensity to be forgotten 
when he sat alone in the midst of books, with a 
portrait over the mantel of the wife who had 
died and left no child to occupy her place. It 
was a thin, hard face in the frame. It might 
have been the painter’s fault, but the eyes lack- 
ed love and gentleness, and the compressed lips 
betokened peevishness, or pain, or disappoint- 
ment, or what not that compresses lips. 

And Violet knew that she was thought thus 
kindly of by her old friend and playmate. Per- 
haps it cheered some lonely hours in dusky 
rooms, and by the bedside when, as evening 
drew on, the dark shading of the chamber sent 
sometimes a chill to her heart in spite of all its 
warmth. Those were trying seasons for the 
sweet girl-child, whose love of light and life and 
music was an inborn passion; but she never re- 
pined, patiently watching by him. She was tear- 
ful when he could not see it, because he was so 
_ pale and worn-looking. She noticed it more now 
that he was confined to a sick-chamber. 

“And how can the man expect to get better if 
he won’t have in a doctor or consult medical au- 
thority ?” 

Thus the pastor asked of himself. He was in 
error. Mr. Hamilton had consulted medical au- 
thority, had sat up in bed propped by pillows, 
with the quilt strewn and chairs piled with the 
most curious old medical works ever collected to- 
_ gether. He would medicate for himself, if he 

needed it, which he very much doubted; but, man- 
like, he felt a degree alarmed now he was down. 
So old Pharmacy came down off the shelves— 
and Geoffrey Hamilton’s Pharmacology embraced 
periods from Paracelsus downward—and up from 
the chests, of which the Bishop’s House boasted 
many—its cellars and garrets catacombing the 
dead science and quackery of the world—and out 
of recesses where lofty cupboards with oak doors 
concealed vast tiers of ancient tomes bound in 
the imperishable pig-skin of the good old school 
of binding, when men’s thought was preserved 
as though, indeed, to last forever. He set him- 
self to go through these, hunting out what was 
the matter with him, turning faint very often 
~ over the task, and decidedly more alarmed than 
before he commenced ; mumbling and grumbling 
over Linacre, Harvey, and Sydenham, searching 
deep the treatises of Malpighi, and in alarm toss- 
ing from him a bulky Boerhaave, then going ir- 
ritably into the Hunters, from which he emerged 
shivering, and fancying his complaints multiplied 
a hundredfold. Mead and Laennec were search- 
ingly examined, and with assumed energy, as 
though to warn the old physicians against com- 
ing any of their barber tricks with him, strong 
and well, and opposed to nonsense, especially pro- 
fessional nonsense. He had picked them up very 
cheap long ago, and had never shown them par- 
ticular reverence. They might resent it, now he 
was, so to say, at a disadvantage, and he just 


MINISTER. 125 


ability to do without them, and the resistful atti- 
tude he was taking, midst which he tumbled on 
one side, faint, upsetting his pillows, and drop- 
ping his books; bringing Miss Hamilton to the 
bed, fluttering finely and tremulous, and she gave 
him some brandy, when he sat up again and tried 
to have a tussle with iron Abernethy, whose fe- . 
rociousness settled him, and he did no more for 
that day. He did not gather much after all, ex- 
cept that he was very bad, which he more than 
suspected before, and he felt proportionately dis- 
gusted, not with himself, but with-the doctors. 

Like many another his patience did not im- 
prove with confinement. He was disposed to be 
moody, irritable, and gloomy, and any one but 
his untiring little girl would have thought him 
very trying; perhaps she did at one time, but 
now he often rewarded her with a fond smile. 
She knew they were there before, though they did 
not often show themselves, and this made all the 
difference. Still, it was dull work for her, and, 
when he was lost in abstraction, she felt terribly 
alone. His muttering, when in company with 
the ancients, did not improve it, for what did she 
know of Celsus, of Aétius, or of Paulus Agineta? 
Her little world was all her little day circum- 
scribed by the verdant hollow between the hills; 
the small village was content not to trouble with 
what lay beyond. 

Calling at the cottage one afternoon, the pas- 
tor told Mrs. Evans of his friend’s illness, and in- 
cidentally alluded to Violet’s attentive care.  IIl- 
ness, which breaks down so many barriers, broke 
down that of Mrs. Evans’s reserve, and she said 
she would venture to call and see if she could be 
of any use, and offer to bear the child company. 
Both Bertie and the pastor were surprised; but 
the boy, who knew how self-denying she was, 
and how often she had tended others at the cost 
of rest and health, made no remark, but simply 
looked with the admiring love ever animating his 
countenance when his mother was the subject of 
contemplation, The pastor, however, gently re- 
marked, “I am afraid our friend would raise 
some objection; he is very singular, you know, in 
some things.” 

“T shall not disturb him,” said the “widow, 
quietly. “The little girl needs a motherly friend 
to converse with just now. I hope not to intrude 
so far as to cause annoyance.” 

The lady called, to Violet’s joy. It cheered 
the child—she felt a different being. There was 
no companionship in their servants, and she lit- 
erally had no friend to whom to confide her 
troubles or anxieties ; so these became knit, and 
their affection one for another grew with rare 
delicacy and sensitiveness. 

Violet told her papa of it, and his brow cloud- 
ed at first; but afterward, finding the lady had 
no desire to trespass, and was diffident, actuated 
alone by the most respectful sympathy, he turn- 
ed all the other way, wished to see her, and did 
so, thanking her for the kind attention, and, when 
they were alone, talked with anxious solicitude of 
the future of his little girl, should any thing be- 
fall himself. ‘Of course it won’t, I know very 
well,” he said; ‘‘but when one becomes imbued 
with the horrible theories of the. doctors, one 
never knows what to expect, and I’ve been read- 
ing some of their articles lately as a congenial 
pursuit.” His grim smile, illustrating the cyni- 


frowned surlily upon them, as intimating his | cism, was any thing but pleasant. This sensible 


126 


woman, however, could detect that the surface of 
ice covered a depth of abundant riches. She did 
not utter an eloquent dirge before he was dead, 
nor musically toll a knell for his departure, but 
cheerfully taking his thin bony hand, held it with 
that inspiring warmth which puts life into one, 
while she said, ‘‘ You will be restored to health 
shortly, and need not be borne down by any anx- 
iety of the kind. I will always be the friend of 
your daughter, if you permit it. I am humbly 
circumstanced, as you know, but sincere, and, in 
my opinion, sincerity compensates for many qual- 
ities one may not possess. I have not found 
many people either genuine or sincere in my 
short contact with the world.’ This remark 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Let him come and sit with me an hour; we will 
talk together about the future which he is enter- 
ing. Commencing a course of erudition is like 
setting out upon a long journey, and advice be- 
forehand sometimes saves roundabout progress, 
taking up time without valuable result; not 
that 1 would interfere with the programme of his 
studies.” She felt proud he had tendered the re- 
quest, and was grateful. 

““T propose to take Violet for a nice long walk 
upon the Downs to-morrow morning, and my son 
shall sit with you while we are absent. It will 
do your girl good; she has not been out enough of 
late.” This remark appeared graciously thought- 
ful to him, and so the arrangement was decided. 


SSS —— 


—= 
——— 
———— 


ea, 
aes 


“““GOOD-MORNING, DEAR SIR; I AM SORRY TO SEE YOU SO ILL!” 


pleased the scholar; he set a seal on it there- 
with, which bore this impresston—“ Hollow.” 

Life at the Bishop’s House became brighter 
and happier after the first visits of their neigh- 
bor. Violet improved visibly under the impetus of 
the friendship; it also communicated additional 
softness to her naturally pleasing manner, as the 
companionship of a refined gentlewoman will, and 
the master felt this innovation to be of service. 

Once he alluded to the lady’s son, when she 
instantly replied, “‘He is very well; engaged as 
usual with his books, and giving all his time to 
study. When he goes out he wanders down to 
the shore. Like his poor father, he loves the sea 
passionately.” 

Then he turned all the other way; wonderful- 
ly inconsistent ones these recluse scholars, the 
law of probabilities hath no bearing with them. 


Next day, soon after calling, the widow took 
Violet off with her for a splendid run upon the 
heights, and many were the injunctions as to the 
care to be taken of his darling. He soon felt 
dull with her away from him, and became fretful 
under the burden of being unable to accompany 
her himself. His thin white arm went astray 
upon the coverlet, a thin white hand clutching 
the old-fashioned many-colored curtain at the 
head of his bed; wistfully looking between the 
dark bed posts at the window-framed view of the 
Downs, his pillowed head was raised slightly, so 
that he could lie and gaze upon them. With all 
his nerves keenly alert, dreading the knock at 
the door which would announce his visitor, whom 
he now regretted having invited, and quivering 
intensely upon the soft knock being heard, fol- 
lowed by the entrance of the boy, who looked in 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


his face with an appearance of sensitive defer- 
ence, and a solicitous tenderness that was like a 
light from within. 

‘“‘Good-morning, dear Sir; I am sorry to see 
you so ill!” 

‘““Wrong boy, wrong; there’s nothing the mat- 
ter. You thought I was going off like your poor 
father, [suppose? That’s the worst of it; if one 
does take a little rest in the form most convenient 
and agreeable, people run away with the idea one 
is seriously ill—going to die, in fact.” 

“On the contrary, my mother told me she 

thought you would be about again in a few days; 
you were very weak, but she hoped you would 
soon get out.” 
* The invalid raised himself by an effort upon 
his elbow, and half fiercely asked, ‘“‘ Whatever 
business has your mother or any body else’s 
mother to authoritatively declare I am suffering 
from very weakness? Ill show you, if the fit 
seizes me, that I can get up’ and mount yon 
hill. Things are coming toa pretty pass if a man 
can’t recline on his own bed without all this fuss 
being made of it! What have you come here 
for?” 

“To sit with you; a pleasure that will, I know, 
be all upon my side: yet, I confess, it is a pleas- 
ure I have longed for.” Geoffrey Hamilton Jook- 
ed up to see if the exasperating smile bore the 
pretty speech company. No; it was a thoughtful 
face, not smiling. 

“Queer lad; are there no boatmen to engage 
your fancy, implements at the farms or on the 
land, no young men of the villas with butterfly 
nets? Your friend the parson—what is the old 
man doing that you should come to me?” 

“ And why should I not come to you, if you are 
good enough to have me? If I worry you, I will 
go when you bid me; but if I may stay, I will 
make little noise and try not to displease.” 

“But you do worry. I can feel your knee 
against the bed now; it goes all through me; and 
I don’t like any body standing staring and ap- 
pearing to wish to do something enthusiastic. 
Some people are like galvanic batteries, and you 
are one of them.” 

“T will sit down, Sir, if you Teal 

“Yes, but be careful; the chairs are old and 
creaky. If you pull that one forward, bear lightly 
upon it; the casters are rusty or something, and 
make a horrid, disagreeable sound. Your mother 
must needs move it yesterday; nearly killed me 
—not but what [’'m strong enough—don’t mis- 
take me.” 

The boy removed a small parcel from his pock- 
~ et and commenced to untie it; the rustling of the 
crisp white paper in which it had been infolded 
with such nicety disturbed the susceptible inva- 
lid. . Quivering in every limb he angrily desired 
his visitor to discontinue. ‘‘ There’s nothing, I do 
think, comes up to the horrible rustle of a sheet 
of paper, unless it is a silk dress; put it down, 
please.” By this time, however, Master Evans 
had taken a small bottle from it, and looking 
down, he said, softly— 

“When poor papa was overworked and low he 
used to take this and derive much benefit. As we 
had some of it left I dared to bring it with me, think- 
ing, perhaps, you could describe the ingredients 
of which it is composed; I take such an interest 
in chemistry.” This was rounding a point, anda 
dangerous one; his real object was to try and 


127 


persuade their friend to try the mixture, which, 
composed of phosphates, iron, and other recuper- 
ative qualities, had proved of service to the over- 
taxed preacher upon several occasions. For some 
moments the invalid remained without speaking; 
then he said wearily, as though the final blow had 
deprived him of his remaining strength, ‘ Throw 
it out of the window, or else take it and yourself 
off together.” 

“Tf you wish it, Sir; but perhaps you will tell 
me first. I am sure you are familiar with the sci- 
ence.” Spoken gently, but with calm self-posses- 
sion, and not showing symptoms of being hurt 
by the uncouth treatment he had received. The 
master of the Bishop’s House raised himself upon 
his elbow. 

‘Don’t you know I have been a student of sci- 
ence all my life? Is my midnight lamp: under 
such a bushel you can not see from your part of 
the village that while the dullards sleep a man is 
here spending life in investigation, and then you 
ask me to be analytical over some quack’s bottle 
of trumpery wash! What on earth are you think- 
ing of? Insulting me it appears when I am un- 
able to resent it.”” Then the turn, to which now 
that he was weak he seemed subject, stole upon 
him, and irresolutely, yet with decreased violence, 
he said, “Give it me!” Taking it from the boy, 
whose cheerfulness and refusal to be affronted 
would have favorably impressed a more rocky 
being than this old man, he smelt and tasted it, 
and then affirmed he knew nothing about it, but 
added, half surlily, that he might leave it on the 
mantel-piece. 

“Shall I read to you a little while?” looking 
lovingly toward the old books scattered about—a 
look the master caught corner-ways, and appro- 
priated as a piece of feeling in spite of himself. 
How it sunk into the heart with a new strange 
warmth ! 

“Can you read? I hate gabbling, while an 
affectation of oratory is detestable.”’ 

“Let me try. If you do not like it, I will leave 
off.” 

Mr. Hamilton directed him to the formidable 
volumes, and bade him select a work of Cornelius 
Agrippa from the pile. It was The Vanity and 
Nothingness of Human Knowledge by that old 
writer, and Master Bertie Evans handled its worm- 
eaten covers gingerly. Some grass from the 
Downs, yellow as the pages, served for a book- 
marker, and he commenced at that place. After 
some minutes Mr. Hamilton cried— 

“Put it down, please! -I don’t say you read 
badly, but I suppose it’s because I’m not used to 
it. Without being an unpleasant voice, yours has 
not attained the mellowness essential to the com- 
fort of a sick person—or rather” (hastily correct- 
ing himself) ‘‘ I meant to have said a person whose 
nerves are not so strong as they ought to be, eon- 
sidering the out-door exercise I’ve had. And it 
may be my fancy, but there’s a little affected way 
about you I don’t quite like. I wonder whether 
that tenderness and thought are genuine or put 

on ?”’ (musingly, half to himself.) 

“T never told a lie in my life!” said Bertie, 
with a hot cheek. 

“ Nobody said you did.” 

“ But you are questioning my acting one.” 

“Tf you put yourself into a questionable posi- 
tion, don’t be offended if awkward inquiries are 
made.” 


128 


Master Evans recovered his good humor imme- 
diately, and said, “I beg your pardon for speak- 
ing out, Sir. I should have known better.” 

“You should know better than to apologize 
when you are not in the wrong.” 

The boy looked up with a brilliant face; the 
kindly remark gave promise of consideration, aft- 
er all, at the hands of this cross-grained, sensitive 
student. How he longed for some sign of his re- 
lenting! It had been a thankless office thus far ; 
perhaps he could say something that would more 
happily impress the sick gentleman. With some 
apprehension he remarked— 

“JT wish I might accompany you on some of 
those longer walks which Miss Violet can not 
take with you, Sir.’ He endeavored to speak 
without any extraordinary eagerness, but at the 
same time as though the arrangement would be 
a pleasure to him. Mr. Hamilton raised him- 
self in the bed, and rested his arm on the pillow, 
while he half irritably asked— 

‘“¢ Will you please to tell me what there can be 
in the companionship of a person like myself to 
make such an infliction agreeable ?”’ 

“Learning, which it would take many such 
walks to fathom; and wisdom, which neither 
tutors nor schools seem to impart.” And the an- 
swer pleased the master mightily, but he said, ‘‘I 
wonder where you picked that pedantic phrase 
up?” The boy did not reply; he was not going 
to be again betrayed into a warm retort to be aft- 
erward regretted. Then Mr. Hamilton made con- 
cession. ‘I don’t want to repulse you if you 
think theze is the chance of your acquiring any 
knowledge of use to you now or at a later period 
of your life. When I am strong enough to take 
these longer walks, I shall be glad of your com- 
pany.” Bertie felt that he was making progress, 
and was well content, and not wishing to tres- 
pass too far, thought he would gently rise for de- 
parture. The conciliation of anchorites is always 
a troublesome piece of business, and so Master 
Evans had found it; but he was altogether un- 
prepared for Mr. Hamilton’s peremptory request 
that he would keep seated. ‘ You have but just 
come, and now you want to be off, it’s not worth 
disturbing me for.”’ Thereupon the visitor seat- 
ed himself with an air of immeasurable delight, 
which the sick man noted with secret gratifica- 
tion. And shortly after that they found them- 
selves talking as though never a contrary word 
had been interchanged between them, and time 
passed quicker than ever before in Geoffrey Ham- 
ilton’s experience. It was genuine pleasure to 
impart his store of wisdom, especially to so rapt 
and attentive a disciple. The enthusiasm of the 
boy was contagious, and put new life and vigor 
into the nerveless recluse; and when at length 
Bertie went. home, both he and his new friend 
were mutually pleased with one another. Not the 
least of the boy’s pleasant recollections was that 
the master had expressed a hope that he might 
see him again that week. And the next time 
Bertie called he was received with friendliness 
and courtesy. When a nature like Geoffrey Ham- 
ilton’s is courted from its armor, when its bris- 
tling points of antagonism are changed for ten- 
drils of an equal sensitiveness that will cling with 
as resolute tenacity, then all the wealth that is in 
such a nature is for the first time seen and un- 
derstood. These two became great friends, and, 
after Mr. Hamilton got about again, constant com- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


panions. With more familiar knowledge of the 
boy, that uneasy sense of possible hazard at- 
tending similar friendship between Bertie and 
Violet passed off, and the recluse did not deny 
himself the pleasure of his young daughter’s com- 
pany also upon the occasions of those pleasant 
walks with Bertie. ) 

So the delicious time of dreams came to Vio- 
let, the happiest time she had known. Her father 
was kinder and more human, and she felt she 
owed it chiefly to their thoughtful friends at the 
cottage, but did not forget the old pastor—her 
silvern playmate—who had long been hoping for 
this change. 

Ey 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
THE LONDON AND OLYMPIAN HORS-D’@UVRE. 


Conrusion was rife in the board-room above 
the London and Olympian, There the directors — 
had met to consider a more than usually serious 
situation ; indeed, since the memorable Percival 
meeting there had not been so. expressive a dem- 
onstration of opinion. The gentlemen of the 
bank were assembled to inquire into enormous 
deficits, discovered by accident, and disbelieved 
by the more unsuspecting members, until ocular 
proof was placed before them of the heavy losses 
sustained by the bank. Then, in the face of the 
astonishing frauds discovered, this gathering was 
hastily summoned, and the usually placid and sat- 
isfied gentlemen were roused to an excitement at 
once (as the senior partner painfully remarked) 
indecorous and unprecedented. It is not pleasant 
for a committee of staid and elderly gentlemen to 
discover that they have been befooled by some 
one in whom they have placed confidence, and de- 
pended upon for that conscientious service not 
always expected of the less confidential. Reho- 
boam Gripper, Esq., was profoundly put out, and 
some idea of this important gentleman’s grievance 
may be drawn from his own remark to the gen- 
tleman next him, that if he had suspected that 
such a thing, were possible in the London and 
Olympian he would have resigned and realized his 
shares in favor of the Bank of England. 

In the heat of the animated discussion, the 
white-haired senior partner rose, and half nervous- 
ly indicated his wish for silence. “I think,” he 
interposed, mildly, ‘‘we shall better advance the 
matter by a more systematic consideration of the 
points at issue; and not to lose the suggestions 
and opinions of our friends, perhaps it will bea 
safer plan if one speaks at a time.” This bland 
hint stemmed the torrent of indignant eloquence, 
and the members addressed the meeting one at a 
time. Not for graver weight, but by reason of 
superior impudence, Rehoboam Gripper, Esq., un- 
dertook to speak first, and it was in this wise: 
‘Gentlemen: When, many years ago, I consented 
to become a director of this once respectable 
bank, I was most positively assured by our friend 
in the chair, then as now representing the head 
of this firm, that there had not been and could 
not be any unpleasantness embarrassing to a cap- 
italist or painful to a gentleman. I will not say 
our friend might have foreseen the possibility of 
some such affair as is now unhappily occupying 
our attention, but I must gently remark that he 
ought to have strenuously opposed the appoint- 
ment of the scoundrel Miles to the responsible 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


position he has lately filled, and which you will 
all remember I resisted to the utmost of my pow- 
er.” The speaker paused and looked daringly 
round from face to face as defying any member 
present to challenge the unblushing assertion. 
The gentlemen of the bank entertained a hazy 
sort of idea that Mr. Gripper’s resistance had not 
been so determined as represented, but not feel- 
ing quite sure upon the point, they contented 
themselves with twisting the tag end of the recol- 
lection silently in their mind, neither confirming 
nor denying the statement. A course that did 
not, however, suit the senior partner, who, with a 
little fluster and a rising color, exclaimed, “I beg 
your pardon ; I—er—you—er—there is some mis- 
take, Mr. Gripper. I did not nominate Stephen 
Miles; I was extremely reluctant to move in the 
matter, and was guided entirely by the wishes 
of the meeting!” The senior partner wore a 
faultless frill upon his shirt front, and diamond 
studs, and above the violence of his sorrow at the 
mistake which had occurred, this specimen of the 
unrivalled skill of his laundress rose and fell with 
a significance that should have moved the phleg- 
matic Gripper; but no, he turned as with surprise 
at the negative remark of his senior. “There can 
be no mistake, Sir; I dare say I can even recall 
your words upon the occasion: I think they were, 
‘IT have carefully observed Mr. Miles, and he ap- 
pears very diligent in fulfilling his duties. I am 
not prepared to signify any gentleman whom I 
would appoint in preference.’ Possibly our friends 
will remember the remark?” Yes, they remem- 
bered it, or something like it, which was near 
enough, and bowed assentingly. It caused the 
senior partner to feel as nearly angry as this 
placable old gentleman ever did feel, but he acted 
as they used to act when swords were worn at the 
side—bowed with courtesy which pardons while it 
does not yield. Then the partner second in order 
by years and position, a stout rubicund person, 
warm of hue and temper, and possessed of per- 
tinacious fondness for arguing and debating, 
sifting evidence, as he called it, and who would 
cling to the last thread of a discussion with per- 
sistent obstinacy until but a thread was left to 
hold on by, next addressed the meeting, without 
preface or appeal. 

“What I want to know is, why this fellow who 
has decamped was not checked back regularly, 
and so pulled up before? It’s a dead certainty 
there’s blame somewhere, but who the devil to 
single out for censure is at first sight difficult of 
solution. When, however, we come to go into 
the pros and cons, and investigate the surround- 
ings, it appears to me our friend Mr. Gripper knew 
about as much of this young man as any body.” 

“ Sir,” began Mr. Gripper, becoming very hot. 

‘Don’t interrupt me, please,”’ added the stout 
and rubicund director, with spirit. ‘‘We agreed to 
speak one at a time, I believe, and if I remember 
aright, you’ve spoken, and if you’ve not, perhaps 
you'll wait while I speak; and what I particular- 
ly want to know is, why no inquiry was instituted 
at an earlier stage of the proceedings? why, in 
fact, this young man has been allowed to go on 
pretty well as he liked, perpetrating a succession 
of misdemeanors, and fraudulently appropriating 
to this terrific extent? There must be some gross 
mismanagement somewhere, you know, and what 
I want to know is, where? It is far from my wish 
to bring a charge of culpable neglect upon this 

Vox, 1.—I 


129 


body, or any individual member thereof, but it 
bears it upon the face of it, and sophistry never 
yet averted the just course of an inquiry. Proved, 
then, that blame exists, it has to be apportioned 
or directed to a given point; the question at. issue 
resolves itself into a plain statement, and what I 
want to know is, why it was not resolved before ? 
Hastening to the opposite angle of the argument, 
I may observe that any man possessed of the con- 
summate villainy which appears to have been this 
Miles’s noticeable trait and supreme chief quality, 
any man, I say, finding he was unsuspected, nay, 
almost encouraged, in his temerity, would prose- 
cute to a further, nay, the furthest, extreme the 
wrong-doing by which we are so greatly the suf- 
ferers; and what I want to know is, why wasn’t 
he suspected, and whose obtuseness is responsible 
for it?” 

The third director considered that his friend 
had concluded his remarks, or ought to have done 
so, and without rudely interrupting him—for he 
was an eminently polite and affable person— 
contrived to introduce his opening remark at a 
pause between the other’s loquacious sentences. 
The remark was this: “We have been hood- 
winked! Whereat the cross-eyed gentleman at 
the extreme left touched the gentleman next him, 
and said in a low voice that it was undoubtedly 
true the whole thing had been seen in a wrong 
light from the beginning. The third director, 
who was of aristocratic appearance and leanings, 
and by polish was the direct opposite of his friend 
who had last spoken, then went on to make a 
short address, with the graceful prepossession of 
a Chesterfield. ‘There is a certain indignity, 
gentlemen, attending the duty we are perform- 
ing; it is humiliating to our self-respect; the 
fineness of our principles is outraged. As loyal 
subjects of her Majesty, we advance the interests 
of this great land in the Funds upon a system of 
honor and integrity which we each feel pledged 
to preserve; and the least approach to the injury 
of this basis of right dealing affects our inmost 
sensibility, whereby, you will admit, all true hon- 
esty stands. When at my house at Surbiton I 
received the brief note of our friend the chair- 
man, intimating that something was wrong, and 
requesting my presence at this meeting, I assure 
you, gentlemen, it was one of the most anxious 
moments of my life. Until our interview in the 
parlor before your arrival I had not the least 
suspicion of the nature of the trouble—imagined 
it to be something connected with the foreign 
loans; but when our friend communicated to me 
that our confidential manager had betrayed our 
confidence, it was a deeper blow than could ever 
arise from the mere fluctuations of business. I 
at once said, ‘I never liked that young man, and 
always entertained an uncomfortable feeling in 
his company.’ In short, the vague presentiment 
of this, to which I could not then have given def- 
inition, was ever present. Gentlemen, I always 
experienced grave doubts concerning the guilt of 
the previous manager, Percival, whom you dis- 
missed in so rude a manner; and I fear, gentle- 
men, a serious error was then committed.” 

This conservative and gentlemanly director then 
sat down; he evidently had not been speaking 
from notes, so the trifling inaccuracy regarding 
his share in the dismissal of Mr. Percival passed. 
A fourth quietly stood upon his feet, plunged his 


| fat hands forth as though about to dive, drew 


130 


down his pair of snowy cuffs, fidgeted his scarf 
pin—it was a silver dog-head, and the ears kept 
catching in his beard at every sudden movement, 
which twinges caused him to feel cross. He 
darted with a barb-like expedition after the sub- 
ject occupying attention, and brought it up wound- 
ed, flayed it, and upon the board-table dissected 
it with maleficent expedition. ‘The London and 
Olympian has been pillaged, through the medium 
of forgery, to an extent that has shaken it to its 
foundation, by the instrumentality of the person 
filling the most important position connected 
with its management. That person has abscond- 
ed; the round sum total of his embezzlement, so 
far as can be calculated by falsified entries found, 
and absence of entries altogether, will not be cov- 
ered by a sum less than £10,000! With the 
fruits of this peculation to aid his escape, and 
with the start of three clear days (it is known to 
you he plausibly asked for leave of absence to 
visit his sick mother), it will not surprise me if 
Scotland Yard fails in tracking him; and mean- 
time it behooves us to consider what is to be 
done. That the bank will suffer in credit as 
well as in substance is certain; we had proof 


enough of that this morning, when, shortly after 


the rumor had spread, three of our oldest depos- 
itors gave notice of the removal of their balance. 
For a double calamity of this unfortunate kind 
to befall us within a term of two years is disas- 
ter enough to shake the most solid concern, I 
don’t want to breathe suspicion of a panic, but 
in my opinion a sudden, instant, and skillful coup 
is necessary to re-instate our prestige and, possi- 
bly, to sustain our credit. It is one of those 
emergencies not to be fathomed, but which time, 
like the proverbial sneak it is, converts to one’s 
hurt and to the discomfiture of share-holders.” 
Pushing back his cuffs, which the motion and 
emotion had lowered below mark, and smoothing 
the broad outlying folds of his coat, this gentleman 
resumed his seat. There was a pause. Then— 

A fifth spoke without rising. He was the prime 
minister of this financial body, and dotted on his 
thumb-nail with a gold pencil-case while speaking. 
‘Does our friend wish to signify by use of the ex- 
pression ‘a coup’ acquisition of increased capital, 
the promoting of a private loan, the realizing by 
local stock, the selling out, or the contraction of 
floating capital? Perhaps our friend will specify.” 

“‘T had no particular method in mind, Mr. Gold- 
worthy; it simply occurred to me as the politic 
course, if taken in time,and calculated to re-ad- 
Just our position.” 

“Of course, very proper, and the method to be 
adopted,” returned number five, looking toward 
the chairman. 

“Tf you will permit me?” The senior partner 
rose to speak, and all became keenly interested 
in what the white-haired, pleasant-mannered gen- 
tleman said. ‘Ido not put my suggestion arbi- 
trarily ; I will merely propose it, and leave it with 
the committee to accept or decline as they may 
think best. We have discovered that the charge 
unhappily made against Mr. Percival was un- 
founded. A communication to that effect should 
be made to him without delay, together, I think, 
with re-assurance of our esteem and confidence. 
My proposal is—in justice to him, and in the in- 
terests of ourselves—to cordially invite his re- 
sumption of office here upon the same footing as 
before.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Won't do,” muttered Rehoboam Gripper, Esq. 
““Now he’s had the idea put in his head he'll 
avail himself of it, if only out of revenge. He’s 
got it in him if he didn’t do it, and we’re suffi- 
ciently in a mess without any of Mr. George Per- 
cival’s superfine help.” 

A sixth partner begged to take a different view 
to that of Mr. Gripper, and to concur with the 
proposal suggested by their respected friend in 
the chair. Mr. Percival had been greatly liked 
by their customers. His return to office would 
certainly counteract one of the unpleasantnesses, 
and he was warmly in favor of it. 

A seventh had pleasure in thinking the same, 
and he was of opinion Mr. Percival had from the 
very first studied their best interests, and worked 
with indefatigable industry at all connected with 
his duties. : 

“‘ His literary duties,” said Gripper, Esq., snap- 
pishly. “ We don’t want a man here whose time 
is given to scribbling behind our backs, and who 
would creep into the position of gentlemen of 
regular occupation, when his proclivities are all 
in the direction of a Bohemianish mode of living.” 

“T think you take a harsh estimate of Mr, Per- 
cival’s principles, Mr. Gripper,” said the senior 
member, with friendly remonstrance. “Iam con- 
vinced that during the long period of his engage- 
ment here he devoted every minute of his time 


to the conscientious performance of his by no- 


means easy duties.” 

An eighth speaker thought the question open- 
ed another of equal importance, to which it was 
united—if they did not re-elect Mr. Percival, it 
was imperative some other gentleman should be 
appointed. . 

The discussion as to the advisability of re-in- 
stating Mr. Percival in his old position of man- 
ager was sustained with spirit, and it was ulti- 
mately decided to dispatch the bank messenger 
to his house, and request the favor of his imme- 
diate attendance if he happened to be at home. 

Transit from one part of London to another is 
a matter of such magical celerity that they ex- 
pected him within half an hour, and meantime 
discussed the awkward nature of the proceedings 
so far as Stephen Miles was concerned, and ‘it 
might have done that amphibious being much 
good to have heard their criticism at its most 
candid height. 

The ninth speaker, a tremendously solemn per- 
sonage, celebrated for his closeness, and a mel- 
ancholy verging upon the hypochondriacal, open- 
ed his firmly placed lips, groaned inwardly, and 
with a dull, pathetic intensity said, “ The saddest 
part of this very sad trouble appears in the hypo- 
critical arts practiced by this irretrievably bad 
man, and when we contemplate the example thus 
held up to the juniors, we may well experience 
the profoundest grief. We should exercise the 
completest supervision to observe if evil effects 
are germinating; for, my brethren—er—hum— 
dear friends, it but too often follows that contam- 
ination corrupts successive grades, when an elder 
yieldeth unto the devices of the Evil One.” They 
were not sure they had caught what he meant, 
but they preserved the outward and visible signs 
of respect. One middle-aged gentleman opposite, 
with a pair of violet-colored glasses bridging an 
impressionable nose, stared hard, yet with awe, at 
the speaker, regarding him as a teacher. It was 


indeed known that he sometimes addressed relig- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ious associations upon vital subjects, and as from 
time immemorial the religiously inclined banker 
has been a more than usually venerated profes- 
sor, this gentleman who preserved the prestige 
of the London and Olympian in a pious sense 
was looked up to and estimated at a high stand- 
ard, which, however, wouldn’t continue very much 
longer if things went on as they had been doing. 

Sinee this friend had shunted the question into 
a new groove, and encroached on the moralities, 
the tenth speaker sought to improve the occasion, 
being under an impression that good effect would 
follow a quiet word or two with the clerks ; hav- 
ing them in after closing of the bank, and with 
friendly, impressive earnestness, talking with 
them, and dwelling particularly upon the reward 
of the honest and high-principled here and here- 
after, depicting in warning periods the punish- 
ments befalling the wretched backsliders from 

. financial rectitude, and the betrayers of human 
faith in consols. 

The gentleman remarkable for closeness, whose 
daughter it was traditionally reported had been 
wedded in a gown of green leno trimmed with 
water-cresses, did not commend the proposition. 
He feared, he said, it would be misconstrued, would 
exert a contrary effect to that desired. It was not, 
he thought, a fitting occasion for official exposi- 
tion ; nor did circumstances, he believed, justify 
the course. 

The previous speaker, who was troubled with 
habitual indigestion, took a bite at a ginger-tablet 
carried in his waistcoat pocket, and the eleventh 
speaker calmly and with after-dinner flexibility 
favored with a word ortwo. In his opinion, form- 
ed after a life’s observation, the ground-work of 
all their own and all similar evil was attributable 
to three flagrant and notoriously mistaken insti- 
tutions ; first, the heads of departments in bank- 
ing establishments were paid too liberally; it awoke 
desire for more, whereas a contracted salary pre- 
sented ever-recurring quarterly meditation upon 
contentment with little; secondly, the hours of 
business were not long enough ; where a man got 
home by five or six o’clock it afforded an entire 
evening for the evolving of mischief, and he 
thought it a great mistake. “Run the hours of 
business on to seven or eight o’clock, so as to 
break their evening, and only to permit of a 
saunter home and quiet read before bed-time. I 
am satisfied this would operate with salutary re- 
sults, and that both the young men and ourselves 
would benefit ; next, I entirely disapprove of hol- 
idays, which, I am sorry to say, appear upon the 
inerease, and which are fraught with terrible 
temptation and ill effects. I can understand the 
hard-worked manufacturers, sons of toil, and shop- 
people even, occasionally needing a change; but 
what is there in so essentially light and non-labo- 
rious an occupation as that with which we are 
more immediately connected to wArrant the easy- 
going treatment and observance it is the custom 

‘to extend ?” 

They were in the midst of this discussion, when 
ex-Manager Percival knocked and entered, with 
the old business-like manner that sent a thrill 
through the length of the board, and the forgiv- 
ing affable courtesy we should expect from the 
man was also apparent. 

“‘Good-day, Mr. Percival; we are glad to see 
you, and are obliged for this prompt attention.” 
Thus the director at the corner nearest his en- 


131 


trance, while one and another nodded pleasantly 
and with the utmost friendliness. George Perci- 
val felt surprised, but supposed they had discov- 
ered their error, and in his heart thanked God if 
it were so, for the horrible charge had oppressed 
him like a nightmare, although he said little about 
it. He walked to the head of the table, and with 
a respectful word or two asked their pleasure. 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Percival, for your 
personal response to our message. Sit down, 
Sir; we wish for a word with you.” 

He did so, with perfect self-possession, guess- 
ing what was coming, wishing it was over. The 
senior partner continued— 

“Tt is our happy duty to acquaint you with the 
fact of your being entirely cleared in our judg- 
ment of the charges some time ago made against 
you; and for which we desire to offer ample 
apology, with more sincere regret on my part, 
and I am sure I may say on the part of my 
friends present, than can well be expressed. It 
is our wish to indemnify you in some way, and 
we shall therefore pay to you or to your account 
in the bank your accustomed salary for the en- 
tire time you have been away, and which you 
will oblige us much by simply regarding in the 
light of a vacation. We shall also have much 
pleasure in re-appointing you manager of the 
London and Olympian; if convenient and agree- 
able to you to resume work here.” 

Although moved exceedingly and a prey to vary- 
ing emotions, Mr. Percival contrived to maintain 
an outward calmness, but with polite firmness to 
acknowledge and decline the proffered trust. 

“T thank you, Sir, and gentlemen, for the good- 
will and confidence you entertain toward me. I 
am always grateful for esteem, and to be cleared 
honorably of an unjust accusation is what I have 
never ceased to hope for; but I have not supposed 
for a moment I should be invited to resume of- 
fice here. Imay as well say that my present en- 
gagements would not permit of it even if I felt 
comfortable in so doing, which, candidly, I should 
not. - All the same, I thank you, and truly hope 
you may be successful in your efforts to obtain a 
conscientious, high-principled manager.” 

“We will try to do better than we have done, 
anyway,’ muttered Rehoboam Gripper, Esq. 
““We shall have to go a long way to do worse.” 
He was looking straight at the clear broad brow 
of the author, With a little cough of annoyance 
the senior partner explained— 

“Mr. Gripper is alluding to Stephen Miles, 
Mr. Percival, who has systematically falsified our 
books.” George had asked no questions; this 
threw light on an old mystery. He was sur- 
prised, and also experienced sorrow. It did not 
controvert the venom underlying Mr. Gripper’s 
remark; and, not as bearing malice, but to set- 
tle all up now they were upon the distasteful in- 
quiry, he thought well to say— 

“No, Sir; Mr. Gripper’s remark was directed ~ 
at myself. For some time he subjected me to a | 
series of petty annoyances, and chiefly brought 
about my disgrace; to effect which he descended 
to private meetings with Miles, and stealthy vis- 
its to the bank. Had my engagements permitted 
my accepting your offer, I would not have re- 
turned here until Rehoboam Gripper’s name was 
erased from the list of the London and Olym- 
pian directors.” 

Mr. Gripper was about to reply angrily, when 


* spicuous. 


132 


the senior partner requested there might be no 
disputation in the board-room, And— 

“You are quite sure we can not induce you to 
reconsider your decision, Mr. Percival ?” 

“ Quite, Sir; but I thank you for this proof of 
restored confidence, which is valued by me ex- 
ceedingly.” 

Shortly afterward Mr. Percival retired with the 
pleasurable conviction that his innocence and in- 
tegrity were again fully established; a satisfac- 
tion attended with encouraging feelings that 
would prove helpful to him. 

Gabrielle’s gratitude when told of it was, if 
possible, deeper than his own. She did not say 
much, but was tremulous with emotion, and leav- 
ing the room she went to her chamber, and upon 
her knees by the bedside she lifted up her heart, 
and could there express all upon which her tongue 
had been tied when with him. Wondrous was the 
fervor of her thankfulness; sorrowful in his sor- 
row, she rejoiced when he knew joy. 


= ——_——————— 


CHAPTER XXX. 


IN THE CONFIDENCE OF GABRIELLE. 


GABRIELLE felt strangely alone when George 
had left them; the evenings were long and wea- 
risome; all day there was nothing to look for- 
ward to; the house seemed despoiled, the rooms 
to have been robbed of their. homeliness and 
comfort. There was a great bare blank; it was 
what men and women call “loss.” There was a 
grim, unkind solitude; it was what the suffering 
call “despair.” So gentle, so uncomplaining, so 
persistently attentive to work and duty, they who 
loved her never guessed it, the old people going 
down the vale, to whom this unmarried daughter 
represented so much; who was so dear they nev- 
er thought there might be yearning upon her side 
for a change. If so, it did not make itself con- 
Gabrielle was eminently one of those 
who conceal and shelter their finer emotion. 

Yet she trembled when, the next day, her moth- 
er said, “ Better give George’s room a good clear 
out.” George’s room no longer! A good clear 
out! Why, her face was averted whenever she 
passed the door going to and from her chamber. 
Dear old room! she would have gone over every 
inch of carpet, kissing it; no more would it be 
trod by the feet of her girlhood’s hero. But 
her mother was of a practical turn of mind; she 
tied a pocket-handkerchief round her neat morn- 
ing cap, called the girl from the kitchen to bring 
brush and dust-pan, broom and tea-leaves, and 
proceeded with her “good clear out.” And it 
caused her daughter a sharp pang to see the 
well-loved easy-chair briskly wheeled on to the 
landing, the little table where he used to sit writ- 
ing to so late an hour, which was sacred to her 
as an altar, carelessly crowded with trifles, every 
one of which had an eloquence of its own; the 
book-shelves on their cord were taken down and 
set compact upon the floor, while the books that 
he had used were bundled without ceremony into 
the upper division of a cupboard. They were all 
known to her, old friends, conned over in his ab- 
Sence to see new markings, each page pressed to 
the lips he never kissed, nor ever wished to. It is 
a fatal relationship, this of cousmhood! There 
was the ink-stand with old pens, all used by him 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


—and she reverently picked them out of the dust 
where she found them thrown, while none of 
earth saw the care, and consigned them to safer 
keeping in her pocket. The footstool tumbled 
into the passage for use in their common sitting- 
room she would remove to her own chamber, and 
thereon would kneel at prayer-time. Here was 
the brown sheep-skin rug from before the fire- 
place, and she quivered with pain as she recalled 
his once saying, “Only fancy, Gabrielle, a little 
fairy-like girl curled fast asleep on my rug!” It 
was a sad ordeal for Gabrielle, that turning out 
of his room. How she worked! Her mother 
thought, much gratified, ‘‘ Gabrielle is wonderful- 
ly well and active! What a blessing is health !” 
and began to feel poorly immediately, leaving the 
rest of the work to the wonderfully well and act- 
ive, who, when it was done, changed labor, and 
in the kitchen prepared some delicacy for her 
invalid, 

She kept all her feeling under; but like the 
pictured passion on some old shield hanging upon 
a wall, while dim light makes indistinct the love 
lines, and weaves a pale central haze of gray, it 
was there hard graven, and terribly vivid at 
times when the fierce light of sudden pain, as on 
that morning, beamed full upon it. Vividly and 
often came to her mind the poem of a graceful 
lyrist— 

** Life, indeed, is not 


The thing we-plann’d it out ere hope was dead. 
And then we women can not choose our Iot. 


‘* Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; 
Much given away which it were sweet to keep, 
The deed that never hath been done, the tear 
That never hath been wept—who knows how deep 
These lurk in unlived lives? Ourselves behind 
Ourselves we leave, and miss what most we scek; 
In our own memories our graves we find, 
And when we lean upon our hearts, they break. 


‘The thing which must be must be for the best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 
And trust in Heaven bumbly for the rest.” 


This was her creed, and in the quiet service of 
the home, as well as in the daily ministry among 
the poor, she lived in consonance with that in- 
ner, loftier, more spiritual principle, the guiding 
influence of her life. And the days were quietly 
uneventful now, still as dreamy summer Sabbath 
afternoons —just that Christian idealism, just 
that dutiful affection in the home—and that was 
all. Are these quiet crossed lives, thwarted of 
their hope, happy? Very often; for they pos- 
sess peace which represents much on earth. And 
has Gabrielle’s story ended here? Not at all; 
there is more to come—a struggle, a victory, and 
a more perfect experience of the principle than 
is this still Sabbath afternoon life. 

Such grief as hers may slumber, but never 
dies; and when once neglected for another, it 
only moans for the last poor justice. It is only 
when alone themost comely mask of all we wear, 
resignation, may fall, and a return be made to 
dreams that seem so far away, so full of music. 
The great mystery of suffering in its gloomy sub- 
limity was in her case without its great compen- 
sation, Love, the all-powerful healer. The suffer- 
ing was there—stark, bleak, bitter—but there was 
no love that she knew of. Many thus wounded — 
find the solution of sorrow in work, the impas- _ 
sioned enthusiasm goes into it, and that work be- 
comes a safety-vent. One powerful cause of 
woman’s electric perfection in authorship is that 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


faculty of compressing all her soul into her sub 
ject. The pulse of her firm right hand con- 
verts the pen into an instrument of electricity ; 
it becomes a conductor; the cool precision and 
methodical arrangement of the masculine writer 
would chill the splendid impetuosity which has 
given the world some of its best. The fire that 
burned in the heart of that Lady. of Lesbos 
whom the ancients termed the tenth Muse, is not 
dead, so far as its inspiration goes. “Poetry,” 
wrote Mrs. Browning, “has been as serious a 
thing to me as life itself, and life has been a 
very serious thing. I never mistook pleasure for 
the final cause of poetry, nor leisure for the hour 
of the poet.” Gabrielle’s nature was so delicate- 
ly sensitive that even poetry itself, the aliment 
of her soul, conspired to crush it. This exquisite 
morbidness, rather the morbidness of angels than 
of women, through poetry found the outlet for the 
spirit’s pain. When the soul that sings such 
silent songs is understood in its beautiful, un- 
earthly, unsustained perfection, we may see the 
millennium of idealism. But there was no half- 
mournful, half-pleading regret. She had accept- 
ed her destiny, and rather possessed an aroused 
and arousing faith, that will not despond, will 
not be lowered from its calm pre-eminence. 

There is a word that means so much, yet tells 
so little, that sways with significance of trouble, 
and breathes soft and sweet of an unforgotten 
past—Divided. Yet what sweetness may per- 
vade garish and bitter circumstance, even as the 
inspiration of some rare odor floats through those 
old poem tales of Arabia, wherein the cool, pure 
blue song lies back upon a throbbing sky heavy 
and hot with color. 

Fortunately the time had passed when emo- 
tions changed by the mere catching of some 
glance. The heart was bared to sensitiveness 
_ by the uplifting of Love’s veil, but it was spared 
for a little while the pain which eyes may all in- 
nocently inflict. 

There was no relenting. She did not spare 
herself, When once the fiat of duty has arisen 
within such a nature, the sophistry of tears falls 
like dew upon the rocks of Indus, and sighs are 
waste weeds that are cut to the root with deci- 
sive strokes of the pruning-hook. The ideal re- 
solves into one of actuality. The good is awake, 
supple, prompt. The inner life is alert, ready 
to resist, strong to endure. The time was at 
hand when Gabrielle should crown this, when a 
great victory should make perfect the ideal of 
her nature and. the womanly in her character, 
when life would reach its highest point, and the 
spiritual cover the earthly as with a garment 
from above. 


When Andrew Wilson had spoken of George 
Percival to the Minister, it will be remember ed 
that the latter was strangely moved by the men- 
tion of a name well known to him. ‘Amy’s fre- 
quent allusion to Mr. Percival’s help and the un- 
tiring interest he had taken in their fortunes, her 
affectionate manner of breathing his name, the 
tenderness with which she described the old 
man’s gratitude, and her tears while dwelling 
upon the sad episodes of that anxious time, so 
impressed Mr. Garland, that he resolved to find 
out this kind-hearted, large-souled fellow, and 
tell him of the old man’s pathetic death, while 
re-assuring him as to the welfare of the little girl. 


133 


The risk of being recognized did not trouble him, 
the lapse of time and change of features preclud- 
ed likelihood of it, but in the event of such hap- 
pening, he knew enough of the Percivals to feel 
satisfied his visit would be treated with every 
confidence. 

Having ascertained Mr. Percival’s address, the 
Minister proceeded to call. He found him with- 
in, and at work. The extreme order, the atmos- 
phere of scholarship, and the grave thoughtfulness 
of the young man pleased Mr. Garland, who, at 
ease and akin with the author’s pursuit, derived 
as great pleasure from the interview as did the 
other. Mr. Percival admitted his delight at 
being called upon by one whose writings he had 
long admired, and whose piety and goodness had * 
caused him to wish some day or other to meet so 
eminent a man. Not disconcerted by being rec- 
ognized, the Minister communicated the purport 
of his mission, and Mr. Percival was greatly moved 
to hear of the death of his old friend. Almost 
the first question he asked was relative to the 
clerk’s little girl; his affectionate heart thrilled 
with solicitude on her behalf. Mr. Garland at once 
explained matters to him. 

“You are interested in a child yourself, I think, 
Mr. Percival, Andrew Wilson said something of 
the kind.” 

The author’s brow clouded. 

“For a time I was, very much so. And you 
know, Mr. Garland, the frequent fate of idols of 
clay—we lose them.” 

“Unfortunately Ido ;” the Minister’s voice was 
tremulous with emotion. 

“What steps do you propose to take, Sir, in 
regard to Andrew Wilson’s child? Forgive my 
asking, I have been so long indirectly interested 
in this little girl; I love children deeply.” 

The fresh candor, the gentleness, the chivalrous 
regard for childhood, won the Minister’s most 
cordial appreciation, and he replied— 

“She is now with my housekeeper, until I am 
successful in finding her a happy home, where she 
would be well looked after and treated with con- 
sideration.. In due time she would be able to earn 
her own living, should it be necessary, although 
I prefer waiting until I can find a home where 
her future as well as her present might ni looked 
upon as provided for.” 

“ All that you have said, Sir, inlets a chord 
imexpressibly tender within me. My quiet home, 
its books and studious occupation, and some en- 
gaging little one to break the spell of overwork, 
is my conception of the perfect in domestic life.” 

“ As an old and staid married man, Mr. Perci- 
val, permit me to add one other item we steady- 
going folk are apt to consider an important one 
—a loving, ministering wife. Iam privileged to 
speak from the experience of having possessed a 
home having that sweet associate in sympathy, 
and also with being deprived of it, and I do assure 
you no man of the refinement distinctively yours 
would ever be of two opinions about the balance 
of happiness.” 

“T do not dissent from you in the least, Sir. 
I yield to no one in my estimate of the value of a 
good woman and loving wife; but this has no 
bearing whatever upon the charm of an engaging 
little one in the house.” 

“Except this, that a wife is exceedingly useful 
to look after the engaging little one, if for nothing 
else.” And as the Minister made the repartee, 


134 


the kind smile giving pleasant point, he certainly 
thought he had the best of it. ‘ Besides,”’ he con- 
tinued, “children require a deal of supervision, 
you know, Mr. Percival, and a literary man is the 
worst of all overlookers, being always absorbed, 
easily worried by small cares, seldom relaxing to 
that recreative extent demanded by companion- 
ship with childhood, and needing more intellectual 
company than childhood affords, If you were 
married and felt disposed to carry out your plan 
of adoption (as to which, by-the-way, I don’t know 
whether you are serious); if you offered to bestow 
upon my friendless little protégée the comforts and 
care which I am sure she would receive in a house 
of which you were the head; entertaining the sen- 
timents you do, it would be the product of happi- 
ness to both; and your definition of an ‘engaging 
child’ would, I am sure, be exactly realized, for 
she is both pretty and fascinating, although, per- 
haps, a little uncultivated.” 

All this time Mr. Percival had been gravely at- 
tentive. The Minister’s proposition, half serious, 
half bantering, yet all through in characteristic 
sympathy, gave him cause for quiet reflection. 
He wished the proposal might take definite form. 

“T am a man of very plain speech, Mr. Gar- 
land, and you are a minister of the Gospel, con- 
sequently accustomed to treating matters decor- 
ously; I will therefore, if you please, suppose the 
arrangement you casually allude to having tangi- 


ble effect. In that case, is the little girl given up 
absolutely ?” 
“‘ Absolutely, Sir. No poor orphan, sad to say, 


was ever more entirely destitute of any interest 
in her well-being: at this moment she has but 
one friend, myself, and I shall never lose sight of 
her. Wherever the home may be, whoever I 
may permit to take charge of her, while their 
control will be absolute I shall reserve the right, 
as I think it my duty, to continue her friend ; not 
on the principle of interference, but in order that 
she may feel she has a friend and a home in ad- 
dition to those where she will be reared. It an- 
nuls the horrid feeling of dependence, and coun- 
teracts the-slavish experience of being so totally 
provided for.” 

Mr, Percival bowed. This subtle, tender 
thoughtfulness for the waif captivated him, and 
he replied— 

“She would need no other friend in all the 
world, having one so good and true. All the 
same, I have no objection to become the guardian 
for whom you are in search.” 

“ But the lady, Sir?” asked the Minister, grati- 
fied, yet still with an eye to the item he consider- 
ed so all-important. 

“T think I can speak for the lady,” replied Mr. 
Percival, thoughtfully; “but let the other .be 
settled first.” 

“Well, I declare you are incorrigible; you re- 
mind me of the man who bought his horse first 
and then built his stable.” 

“Quite right, too, I should think; it would 
have been stupid to build upon expectation.’ 

“Yes; only while he was building, the horse 


“Or was stolen!” added the author, with a wry 
face, while the Minister laughingly invited him to 
return to luncheon with him, and see the sub- 
ject of their interest for himself. This Mr. Perci- 
val willingly assented to. 

Amy, with her unreserved and affectionate 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ways, her quick intelligence and charm of man- 
ner, made a very favorable impression upon her 
future protector. Thus strangely commenced a 
union of perfect unselfishness on both sides, and 
of love that increased with every year that passed. 

When George Percival left the Minister’s house 
he went on to Queen Street, where he found his 
cousin alone. She was sitting by the window at 
work; no books nor manuscript now. The face 
was paler than of old, and more aged, but the 
sweetness, the resigned look, the deep spiritual 
light, the far-seeing reliance upon that Higher 
than earthly ties were all increased. Gabrielle 
had suffered, and the suffering had not made her 
strong—far from it. None but herself knew 
how weak it had made her; but it developed the 
gentleness while rendering the constancy mag- 
nificent. ; 

So George told Gabrielle all that had occurred, 
and she turned now hot, now cold, and terribly 
agitated, yet subduing outward evidence of a 
severe and cruel struggle. Then George stood 
manfully face to face with this rare friend of a 
whole life, whose gentle ministry was even as a 
diadem, and whose loving worth needed no test- 
ing or proving, and he said— 

““Come and be all that our friend has repre- 
sented—the sweet associate in sympathy—tlie 
tender helper in my charge of the child—tle 
loving, ministering wife !” 

Holding his hands forth to her, and grasping 
hers, placed in his so warmly he never felt their 
trembling, their throbbing change from heat to 
cold. 

Her lips were pressed close, her cheeks were 
colorless, her voice was distinct and clear. 

“Yes, George, gladly; ever your associate in 
sympathy, your tender helper with the little one, 
but—not your wife. Cousins still, dear, please!” 

Then with meek dignity she left the room, 
and in her chamber where but One saw, conquered. 

Gabrielle was true to her resolution, and 
through all those years she kept his house had 
but his dearest interest at heart, and from first 
to last taught Amy how to love him. 

The pangs, the agony, the exquisite ordeal, were 
never betrayed; no shadow of discontent or bit- 


terness; not an interval’s diminution of tender 


gentleness in her treatment of the child and con- 
duct toward George, to whom, indeed, she was 
as she had ever been, no more, no less. Through 
all the years of widening honor and increasing 
prosperity and fame by which another was to 
profit; through all the years of that caressive 
fondness which a maiden yields to him she loves, 
and by which the patient worker outsat her own 
weak self, and became strong by virtue of the 
heroism; through all the years her cousin’s fond- 
ness was changing to the grand deep passion, 
when for the first time she saw him /ove—through 
all, she still lived on, ay, and still loved on: mys- 
terious heart of woman! 

She had foreseen the issue when the proposal 
came, and for him gave up herself. 


And even as where one suffers, another joys, — 
Amy, grown beautiful, and with intellect mould- . 


ed by his teaching, with a happy home found aft- 
er all, and a kind regardful heart all hers, knew 
most perfect joy, and certainly strove to be wor- 
thy of it. And when the Minister would call, 
and George, with proud delight, admitted that it 
was to him they owed their present happiness, 


om Oe eae 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


but one knew of the other side. Mr. Garland 
had long enough detected Gabrielle’s share in it, 
and gave her a divided measure of that rarer 
friendship he gave to Constance, whose sister in 
his sympathy and thought she was. Lovely is 
such flower of friendship, surely of the loftier 
standard Addison meant— 


‘And such a friendship ends not but with life.” 


In the Minister’s regard Gabrielle joined that 
throng of saddened and weary ones to whom the 
world is all pain, life a long trial of patient en- 
durance. Their eyes are tearless—they have 
wept passionate floods over broken idols, and 
can weep no longer; the tranquillity of resigna- 
tion that comes after fierce battles and mighty 
struggles is theirs; the lips are roseless, drawn 
in by rigor of their pain; the hearts have lost 
the high hope that once made earth a long reach 
of sunshine and music; darling joys, once too 
precious to speak of, lie waste, and scarce bear- 
ing:to be thought of; and they come with their 
agony lines, and clouded faith, and bruised pa- 
tience, and benumbed affections, with all their 
sad retinue of sorrows, to the comforting words 
of some such man as this, and the tender and 
feeling look more priceless than the words. 

The many acts of unspoken heroism in these 
quiet lives find no chronicle. Emotions to which 
no utterance can be given are the soul’s true elo- 
quence. Trembling, checked ambitions, which 
thrilled the tedious hours musically, too sacred 
ever to be described, too exquisite ever to be de- 
fined; the unfulfilled, fond wishes and dear dim 
dreams; the great soul-yearnings and the still 
small voice of hope—these die too often, and 
life’s altar is strewn with disappointments, when 
there are none to chant the memory, and a world 
is gray with the ashes. Holy, bruised loves, crush- 
ed ideals, lowered from their faultless standard, 
glorious faith and trust-broken charms of spoiled 
illusions, lie on the heart like dead flowers—fad- 
ed, loveless, but fragrant for so long! And a 
word will set the chords vibrating—sad music 
of harps when every string is broken—a look will 
flash upon the dark corners of the life sudden 
vividness, that beats broad until the memory and 
the pain step from behind, bared and bitter. 
There are points in some lives like shrouded 
mile-stones, whereon the distance to Pain and 
Death groweth never faint: they are not close 
together, but so blank and dispiriting, all the 
courage of great hearts and all the strength of 
great days can not but sink beside those stones. 
Long sweeps of sorrow and the voiceless crush- 
ing of mighty trouble, when there seemed no 
light in heaven, and the fair gate of Hope was 
closed, when worlds could not buy sympathy— 
even the mute love in the faithful eyes of some 
. hound, when all was dead and dumb, even the 
dear forget-me-nots once encouraging tender 
promise. There have been struggles that can 
never be recounted, and there are the brave fall- 
en by their banners, their morning-star bedimmed, 
their blue sky dark with the clouds that had no 
silver lining, their fair brows low-lying and un- 
crowned. 

These were the calm, still natures Garland 
loved. The lowered voice, the tranquil mien, the 
subdued manner, and that light in the eye which 
tells of much lost, yet of more gained, all were 
the passport to his most precious friendship ; 


a 


135 


and of those ennobled by this repose, although 
she had spoken no word of it to him, nor he to 
her, Gabrielle was ever beautiful in his esteem. 

Who of those passing her in the street, not 
looking back for any thing that struck them in 
the face, yet haunted by the expression, would 
have guessed all that had influenced the sweet 
light shining there? How many of her poor, 
leaning on that, dreamed it had come of pain, 
beside which poverty was stingless, and all oth- 
er ills were without hurt ? 


———@—_—__—_ 


CHAPTER XXXI. 
AT SUMMERS’S LIBRARY. 


Axsour this time all the walls and hoardings of 
London displayed announcements in large orna- 
mental letters that Miss Vandaleur would short- 
ly appear, with her celebrated Comedy-drama 
Company, at one of the West End theatres. A 
reputation of no mean order heralded the lady’s 
appearance; in the provinces she had won golden 
opinions for a refined type of performance of the 
pathetic and poetic kind, and there appeared to 
be no doubt as to Miss Vandaleur’s ultimate po- 
sition on our stage. The lady came to England 
in the first place with Australian honors; the 
chief towns of Queensland, Victoria, and New 
South Wales had formed a favorable, indeed flat- 
tering, estimate of her powers; and when her 
agent arrived at the antipodes to organize a star- 
ring tour through our provinces, a round of en- 
gagements was signed without difficulty, and the 
appearance of the new actress arranged for an 
early date. In due course the lady arrived, and 
made a successful début. The critical and dis- 
criminating audience present at her first appear- 
ance in this country, allowing for ruggedness and 
excess of emotional force, discerned rare histri- 
onic. excellence, particularly in that lighter ex- 
pression of dramatic sensibility popularly associ- 
ated with the French school. Miss Vandaleur 
scored a success, and was applauded; in suc- 
cessive towns she attracted large audiences, It 
was natural this brilliant artiste should desire to 
perform in the metropolis, and her ambition was 
to be gratified. It was settled that ‘“‘ The famous 
Australian Actress” should appear at a West End 
theatre; walls and hoardings were conspicuous 
with one huge word—VANDALEUR; paragraphs in 
theatrical journals acquainted the public with the . 
lady’s triumphs in other parts of the big world; 
and the windows where portraits of celebrities 
were wont to stay the crowd exhibited a fresh 
face of a new type of loveliness, a mien and car- 
riage that were emphatically queenly. In these 
portraits Miss Vandaleur looked about twenty- 
two, but she was in reality thirty-two. In 
all her journeyings, and they covered an extend- 
ed area, Miss Vandaleur was accompanied by a 
tall, fine, handsome fellow, who seemed to do 
nothing but devote himself by day to providing 
for Miss Vandaleur’s comfort, and by night to 
admiring her acting. It was understood this was 
Mr. Warburton; in private life the lady passed 
as Mrs. Warburton. Nobody believed it, but it 
was true nevertheless; aware it was not believed, 
she was yet too disdainful to flourish her certifi- 
cate in every town she entered. Mr. Warburton 
had been a bush-ranger, but when he first made 


136 


the acquaintance of the lady he was possessed of 
a comfortable little property on the Yarrowee, by 
Ballarat, and was so still, for that matter, All 
the comfortable little properties in the world 
would never lessen nor limit Kate’s love for the 
stage; so, finding he could not cure nor quell, he, 
like the sensible man and devoted admirer he was, 
accompanied her whither she would; and he was 
useful at times, even if it did cast a reflection on 
her. Fortunately, reflections leave faint shadows. 
Kate did not mind in the least, quaffed Cham- 
pagne, lived high at the best hotels, conducted 
herself with propriety, indulged extravagantly i in 
dress, jewelry, and flowers—and paid for them, 
refused to take presents, was exceedingly attach- 
ed—for an actress—to her husband, loved little 
boys, pug-dogs, beggar-men, and sculptors, and, 
like Mistress Gwynne, was exceedingly good to 
the poor, far more so, indeed, than is etiquette 
among virtuous women. At Ballarat, the man 
with the comfortable little property intimated that 
he was a widower; at Ballarat, the woman with 
beauty, fascination, and talent intimated that she 
was a widow; neither believed it, but it came to 
the same thing, and all doubts were consolidated 
at the altar. In the interests of honor we may 
bear witness that these asseverations were liter- 
ally true; the first Mrs. Warburton was the 
daughter of a gentleman who would do any thing 
to oblige, in the interests of the flourishing gen- 
eral store of which he was sole proprietor. The 
first husband of the lady had been a sculptor of 
rising fame and marked genius, whose gifted life 
had been all too short, and all too troubled dur- 
ing that brief span, by this beauteous creature’s 
longing for the stage. Her one child, a little boy 
beautiful as herself, had been placed with her 
father, who was poor, but so kind; she knew 
how kind he had ever been to her, knew he 
would be thus to the boy, and in this loving care 
placed him before leaving for Australia— we 
should like to say “ with something of a pang,” 
but it was scarcely so. When ladies are leaving 
for abroad to form professional engagements, lit. 
tle boys are rather in the way. 

This was Kate Vandaleur. We think we have 
heard of her before in the progress of this histo- 
ry. Yes! But we have not heard all; how that, 
even in the bosom of such a one after a while, 
the glory of foot-light victories is wearisome in 
quieter moods, and the feverish excitement at- 
tendant upon ambition is painful compared with 
. the domestic happiness of other women whom 
they meet in private life, and whose unruffled ex- 
istence excites the sometime envy of those held 
captive by the tyranny of popularity. 

A certain shop in the occupation of one Mr. 
Summers had, in addition to the prestige for ele- 
gancies characterizing many West End establish- 
ments, been, for a considerable number of years, 
thought highly of in the district ; first, for a large 
well-stocked circulating library ; secondly, for sup- 
plying the public with box-tickets for the the- 
atres; and thirdly, for its extensive and choice 
array of plain and colored photographs of nota- 
ble people of the day. In short, Edward Sum- 
mers’s was a distinctly fashionable house of busi- 
ness, much patronized, and the owner whereof 
had, by scrupulous attention and uniform courte- 
sy, realized an independency. The shop was near 
to the house of Mr. Greville Lovelace, and that 
gentleman was one among its numerous patrons; 


A MODERN MINISTER. 4 


and since he disliked entering the shops himself, 
he did as others do—sent the least stupid of his 
servants for such works or articles as he might 
require; and of late, for more special commis- 
sions, he had dispatched his pupil, who would 
perform them with as nice perfection as he could 
wish. 

One day Arthur was thus on literary errand 
when Mr. and Mrs. Warburton were in the shop 
upon business connected with their box office. 
The lady’s eyes were riveted immediately, her 
stately g grace unbent beneath the sublime prompt- 
ing of maternity, and with great agitation she 
went to the boy and addressed him by name; 
then, when he looked up with the splendid eyes, 
passionately eager, wistfully loving, she knew her 
own, and, kneeling, took him to her heart. Mr. 
Warburton, familiar with his lady’s liking for 
beautiful boys, and aware of the cause, was ac- 
customed to her taking a warm interest in their 
behalf, but had never seen her thus affected; and 
he went to her with a word or two of kind: re- 
monstrance. The gentlemen of the shop attrib- 
uted the outburst to “the custom with Australian 
professional ladies,” and attended to their busi- 
ness; but the proprietor, who was of deeper and 
superior insight, at once invited the lady and boy 
into the house, and eonducted them to a pretty 
chamber where they could talk in private at lei- 
sure. Mr. Warburton warmly thanked him for his 
timely and.considerate politeness, and remained 
in the shop. 

Alone with her son, the woman who once play- 
ed this scene, and with such force and pathos that 
it made her reputation—few knowing at the time 
how she had suffered—with loving fervor took 
him upon her knee, parting the curls, gazing 
through tears at the fair brow recalling his fa- 
ther’s, and looking deep into the eyes so full of 
poetry and love. 

“And does my boy remember me?” 

“T should not, had you not known me first. I 
have been cherishing a recollection of someone, 
but it was no one so grand as you are; I think 
more like what you used to be.” 

That went to her heart. He recalled the quiet- 
er days—a recollection just then of pain. 

“ And did you think, my dear, I should never 
come home to England any more? that I had for- 
gotten you, and—and grandfather—dear grand- 
father ?” 

His face clouded in an instant. Without re- 
plying, he said, with tender.simplicity, “ Of course 
you can not know—and we moved after you had 
gone, to a poorer place, but more in the country— 
he is dead.” This was uttered with the mourn- 
ful echo which almost signified that the recovery 
of this brilliant and courted mother scarcely com- 
pensated for the loss of that beloved guardian of 
his youth. She felt this also; but the grief she 
experienced upon hearing of her father’s death, if 
of no intensity, was sufficient to overpower those 
other emotions. She shed a few more tears at 
that—tears of sorrow, more of penitence; she 
knew well enough that never a word nor deed on 
her part had done aught toward linking him to 
life, or strengthening the frail tendons which keep 
the heart from breaking; and she wept, as the 
thoughtless do weep, once in a way, and when a 
past trails up with its reproaching weird remind- 
er, hugging her boy close, as grateful that this 
was still left her to do better by and to love—be- 


® < az 


A-MODERN MINISTER. 


tween intervals of stage love—and to be thought- 
ful for, until the crowd’s applause rendered this 
new affection dim, faint, stripped of its novelty, 
, Jessened of its pleasure. 

“Where are you living now, Arthur?” 

“Tam apprenticed to a gentleman—a sculptor ; 
and I like it. He is very kind, and helps me with 
my studies as well. I love him for it, and all he 
has done for me, and I hope never to leave him.” 
This said the boy, vaguely apprehensive that she 
would wish to remove him—a course he would 
have opposed with firmness. No; the lady had 
no wish to do so. She felt glad to hear he was 
following in his father’s footsteps—glad to hear 
he was so well provided for and happy. The 
passing emotion which had moved her vanished, 
not quite so quickly as when she was overcome 
by sudden pathos in the progress of her dramas, 
but yet did pass, leaving her composed Mary War- 
burton, and, above all things, Kate Vandaleur. 
Any situation imperilling her existence as that 
largely placarded being would have been most re- 
morselessly warred against. But she must see 
her boy often—a stroke of hopeful tenderness in 
the stipulation—and Arthur affectionately wel- 
comed this promise; and when he went to tell 
his friend of the strange occurrence, that friend, 
while gratified it was no worse, resolved that for 
the future he would send some one else on er- 
rands to Summers’s Library. 


aa aERIaainin:: caneenneEeeeE 


CHAPTER XXXII. 
WHAT HAPPENED UPON THE ROAD TO SHOREHAM. 


WEEK-NIGHT services are mainly supported by 
the very good and the very bad; thé medium 
class of attendants upon religious duty confine 
their worship to the Sabbath. Mr. Garland had 
made an undoubted impression upon John Beech, 
who, under his improving influence, had not only 
become a respectable member of the community, 
but also a thoroughly pious and reformed char- 
acter. A great transformation was here, in the 
‘conversion of this man to reverent conduct, hon- 
est dealing, and serious reflection. John Beech 
was regular in his attendance at the week-night 
services; but if Mr. Garland failed to preach, he 
would walk out again with the bluntness which 
still remained an unconvertible trait. It was a 
dogged regard he entertained for the Minister ; 
he must have the Gospel at his hands or none at 
all. Had the Minister been removed or “ trans- 
lated,” Mr. Beech’s piety would have gone from 
him. His conversion was not built upon a yery re- 
liable basis, it will be thought, yet so it was, and 
there are more of the Beech order about. Herein 
lies the secret of success attending some revival- 
ists. Mr, Garland was not a revivalist, but the 
principle and the influence were similar. It is 
the power of sympathy. Some bodies are sympa- 
thetic, and yield generously their sublime gift to 
suffering humanity ; others may be refined seven- 
fold, but never a drop nor grain of the precious 
quality are they able to communicate. Mr. Beech 
was rich in English obstinacy, and though an an- 
gel had assured him of it, he would never have 
believed the Gospel was as priceless from another’s 
ministry, or that any among the sons of men could 
be as good or better than his friend. 


- The elder Mrs. Beech had been sent for to join | 


a 


137 


her husband, greatly to her wonder and satisfac- 
tion, and from that time strife ceased to be the 
daily portion of the poor woman. It seemed a 
new lease of life, it gave promise of a calm end- 
ing to her years, and her heart warmed with 
gratitude when John said, “‘The Minister has 
done it all.” 

Upon the cab-rank at the Old Steine, Driver 
No. 175 was one evening hailed, soon after dusk, 
by a tall man of business-like appearance, yet 
wearing an air of pleasure-seeking. By the gas- 
light Beech saw a white hat with a black band 
round, beneath which sharply prominent feat- 
ures, a florid face, and a voracious-looking head ; 
under the ears and chin a standing collar, richly 
illustrated with little black imps brandishing 
pitchforks ; below this medizval study was a long 
brown coat, very much the worse for wear; and 
around the throat, tied in a fashion popularly 
supposed to be native to sailors, was a crimson 
neckerchief. The gentleman, whom cab-driver 
No. 175 imagined to be connected with the turf, 
carried a short and thick stick under his arm. 

“Shoreham Gardens!” said the tall man, tak- 
ing his seat. This was a good fare, for the Gar- 
dens—a resort much frequented by summer pleas- 
ure-seekers—was some five or six miles along the 
coast, west. But Mr. Beech was honest now, and 
he said— 

“Tf it’s the Gardens you are going to, Sir, 
they’re not open.” 

“Never mind,” said the man in the brown 
coat, lighting a cigar; “drive half the way and 
It’s going to be a pleasant evening, I can 
see.” 

Beech demurred no longer, and the man was 
driven on. Along the sea-line, past the palatial 
stretch of dwellings, and then out mto the dark 
country; a lonely road in spite of distant lights 
and the glow of red behind above the town of 
Brighton. Past a toll-gate where, while the driver 
paid, the traveller leaned back, so that the light 
in the window did not fall upon him. Then on 
to a darker extent, where lights became fainter 
and the red glow more dim. The sea sounded 
dismally here, the pale light that seemed to hover 
upon it being distinct and ghastly. A cart passed 
them ; John Beech called a cheery “ Good-night, 
mate!” and the man answered in the same civil 
strain. A star was born, twinkled feebly, and 
shortly died, and the arch was gloomy again; the 
night must have been chosen for its gloom by this 
gentleman partial to a country drive, for when 
that star appeared he twirled his cigar at it 
defiantly, as though to frighten its feeble light 
away; and he did so, or at all events it was seen 
no more. No vehicle passed them nor any one 
upon foot ; there was no house near, and the track, 
desolate by day even,at night presented a blank- 
ness and dreariness apparently relished by the 
traveller, for he laughed to himself horribly while 
fumbling at something stowed away in a pocket 
deep in his old brown coat. The low shore shelved 
to the water, with a ridge of waste land between 
it and the road; on the other side was a broad 
area partly cultivated, but all unseen during this 
night journey, and possessed of no especial beau- 
ty at any time. The man in the cab had proceed- 
ed far enough for his purpose, and he called out 
in a jovial manner to the driver to stop. 

“Stretch my legs, I think.” He stepped light- 
ly on to the road and shook himself, patted the 


138 


horse, walked round the cab, and said, ‘‘T’'ll set- 
tle with you now, my man.” 

He put his hand under his coat, for his purse 
Beech supposed. He brought, however, a weapon 
from under, which he held behind him while look- 
ing carelessly at the girth. 

‘Something loose here, my worthy friend, and 
we shall be upset if you don’t look out.” 

John Beech came off the box to the side of his 
mare, and stooped to look at her harness. Then 
the man.in the brown coat raised the hand grasp- 
ing a deadly weapon, and felled the other with one 
blow. 

“A message from your friend Noel Barnard, 
Beech: no answer required.” 

With which brutal pleasantry he discharged 
another crushing blow, and, bending over the poor 
wretch, observed curtly to himself, ‘‘ Finishes that 
little item!’ The victim of this savage assault 
was motionless as the dead, with blood flowing 
profusely from two terrible wounds. Then Bar- 
tholomew Rolf turned the horse and cab into the 
waste to wander at will, cast the weapon used to 
the black line of shore, to be washed hence by 
the waves or left, he cared not which, and betook 
himself to walk to Portsmouth. 

Anxiously Mrs. Beech awaited her husband’s 
return long after the usual time of his coming 
home. Edward Street is noisy and given to brawls 
and turmoil, and the woman stood at the door im- 
patient, hoping her husband had not got into any 
trouble, nor was staying away purposely in con- 
sequence of any thing she had said that he might 
not have liked. He might have a longer fare 
than usual, a party somewhere, or people going a 
long distance home from the theatre, 

A woman passed whom she knew; she was re- 
turning from a vain effort toinduce her husband 
to come from the society of congenial tavern 
mates, and Mrs. Beech accosted her. 

“‘Have you seen my good man about, ma’am ?” 

“No, but I’ve see my bad un, and it’s sight 
enough for one night ;”’ and she went in bitterly. 

Mrs. Beech waited another hour, and then went 
down to the rank. The men were changed for 
the night duty; no one had seen 175 take up a 
fare; but his cab was absent. She went on to 
the yard; it was not there. By lantern light a 
man was cleansing some mud off a wheel with a 
wisp of straw. She asked him if he had seen her 
husband. He said he didn’t know her husband, 
and didn’t want, and women were not allowed 
down the yard at that time of the night. She 
hurried to the master’s house; lights were in the 
lower rooms, where some of his friends were ca- 
rousing. She knocked humbly, and asked to 
speak to the master a moment. He came out into 
the passage, heard her, and said she was a fool, 
and if his men’s wives began bothering him, he 
would only employ single ones. Time was when 
Mrs. Beech would have fought him for the argu- 
ment; now she was an altered woman, and she 
retired sadly and quietly. All night she sat up 
waiting for the absent; she had received kind- 
ness from him of late, anda man is double a man 
and thrice a. husband who is not niggardly with 
his kindness. The gray dawn arose to close her 
watching; people were about early in Edward 
Street; those of the house were astir; and then 
the woman fell asleep in her chair, gray, and 
white, and alone, to be roused shortly by men out- 
side and shuffling of feet upon thelanding. They 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


had brought him home, and a sorry sight it was 
the woman awoke to. A market gardener’s cart 
coming to Brighton saw the body by the way- 
side, and pulled up to help. The man was not 
dead, thanks to the cool breeze from the sea, and 
he faintly told his name and lodging. Then the 
gardener with difficulty raised the helpless suf- 
ferer, and placed him with great consideration in 
his cart, resting the feeble being against his stur- 
dy self. 

“Yourre in for it, old fellow. What’s come to 
ye?” he inquired, slowly and kindly. 

“Murder !” moaned the other. 

“‘A quarrel, maybe ?” 

“Yes, a quarrel; and it’s gone agin me, as I 
allus thought it would.” 

And Beech was taken to the house in the street 
named, and borne up the stairs by strange and 
rough yet kindly hands. 

One carried the news to the police, and they 
visited the scene; another carried it to the mas- 
ter, and he went down to his yard; the woman 
carried it to the Minister, and the Minister came 
to the man. 

The police took particulars of the place where 
the body had been lying, and a root of the crim- 
son-dyed grass. The master found his cab and 
his horse uninjured, the latter having returned 
deliberately and at her own convenience to the 
yard, so the proprietor returned to his roll and 
coffee, intending to send the girl round later to 


inquire how the man was proceeding. He sup- 


posed he had fallen from the box, and vowed he 
should be dismissed from his employ. It was of 
no consequence; the Minister found the man dying. 
He had sent his wife for Mr. Garland, not for a 
medical man. “The Minister will be of the most 
use to me now,” he said; so the Minister came in- 
stantly. 

“Close the door, please,” he asked, softly, 
“and tell the people below to be quiet for one 
hour.” He believed his poor convert would not 
outlive that time. Seating himself by the bed, 
he took the brown hand in his, and, pressing it, 
spake with infinite tenderness and gravity— 

“Tell me any thing weighing upon your mind, 
all you wish done, or whatever of the past may 
be a trouble. Then I want you to forget every 
thing, and give your whole thoughts to the sol- 
emn change you will enter upon so soon.” 


It was said very sweetly, not to frighten in the 


least; it almost carried happiness with it. 

“We will quite finish with earth first,” contin- 
ued the Minister, “‘and then there will be nothing 
to draw off your attention from the more joyful 
prospect breaking upon you.” 

‘““P’ve been a bad un,” moaned the man. 

“Fear not! Really repentant, you can leave 
all in the hands of your just and forgiving God.” 
He had been going to say “judge,” but with a 
delicate tact pre-eminently his own, foresaw the 
term would pierce the quivering conscience. 

“My wicked deeds and dreadful words !—My 
life’s bin the blackest going!” He turned rest- 


lessly, writhing with the agony of that swift re- 


view of crime, 

“My friend,” said the Minister, softly, yet with 
firmness, “at this moment, when you haye so 
short a time to listen to me, I would not deceive 


you by one word; and when I tell you the deeds. 


and words will be forgiven you if you are truly 
penitent, you may verily believe your God in His 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


mercy will, for the sake of His dear Son, in whom 
is your trust, blot the whole of them out of your 
life and His remembrance.” 

With another pressure of the hand, touching 
for its affection, the man murmured, “I am! I 
am!” and then raising himself slightly, he looked 
over toward a rude trunk, and in a low voice 
begged the Minister would take from it a sheet 
of paper: upon the mantel-shelf was an ink-bottle 
and pen. ‘ Now write,” he begged, and the Min- 
ister quickly made space for the paper, and pre- 
pared to write as the dying man dictated. The 
voice grew fainter and fainter, but all he wished 
was written upon the paper; then the woman was 
summoned, and in their presence he signed it, and 
the last sad scene took place. 


i 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 
THE GATHERING OF THE VULTURES. 


Tux Tribunal of Goddesses was sitting upon the 
great Garland case, and there was a crowded 
court. It arose in this manner: Miss Penelope 
and her invaluable jury had not been in the house 
of the Comdarlingtons two days before they 
scented something wrong, and found that it would 
be necessary to hold the assize in Brighton. It 
was with the Comdarlingtons’ Minister that some- 
thing was wrong: they had entertained grave 
suspicion of this at a distance, had felt specially 
called upon to visit this gay and dangerous town, 
and, despite Lady Comdarlington’s repeated as- 
surance of his being such a love of a man, they 
were determined to go on with it, and place the 
popular favorite in his true colors before the 
world. They were upon their mettle; the issue of 
the metropolitan campaign had sharpened their 
appetite, and rendered them more than usually 

. acute. 

They commenced with caution. Naturally the 
person who would, no doubt, be intimately ac- 
quainted with all that was going on, would be the 
leading office-bearer of the church—the approach 
to an office-bearer is by means of his wife. Dear 
Lady Comdarlington knew Mrs. Lurch from hav- 
ing met her at bazars and other places (indeed, 
Mrs. Lurch, with fussy pretension, made herself 
known every where), and this valuable auxiliary 
was calledin. It was the preliminary movement, 
setting the barrier an inch or two aside, whereby 
at an enlarged gap would rush in the whole horde 
of vulgarians. For could not Mrs. Lurch report 

_ that dear Miss Caddie, that inestimable spinster, 
had seen the Minister standing before the portrait 
of Constance Evelyn, the lovely creature who had 
suddenly quitted Brighton, and was now, as could 
be incontestably proved, living with Mr. Garland 
at that lonely house which nobody would ever 
pass and nobody could ever find, the housekeep- 
. er of this establishment having been convenient- 
ly sent off ? Every goddess bristled at this sensa- 
tional account, and when Mrs. Lurch majestically 
erected her imposing cap, and, looking the con- 
vocation in the face, submitted the desirability of 
calling in Miss Caddie, there was a general ex- 
pression of approval. 

“Lady Comdarlington presents her compliments 
to Miss Caddie, and hopes for the pleasure of her 
company to tea.” Mrs. Lurch drove off in the 
brougham the bearer of this missive, and presently 


139 


returned with the charming Lottie, fluttering at 
the honor, all unconscious of the inevitable “few 
friends to meet you,” and almost overcome on en- 
tering the drawing-room at having to encounter the 
stony inspection of so many stern-looking maiden 
ladies.. Miss Caddie was naturally possessed of ex- 
traordinary sweetness, and this agreeable quality 
she had cultivated to a pitch of exotic pleasant- 
ness. Thus this mixing of cream and sugar with so 
much vinegar might, one would fear, have produced 
an utterly unpalatable concoction ; but then it was 
just as possible some eminently seasonable and 
piquant salad might come of it. Miss Caddie 
was not impressed by the guests of her hostess ; 
their coldly critical aspect seemed calculated to 
warp even the delicate surface of scandal itself, 
and this presiding oracle, who was in her way 
supreme, felt jealous for the honor of her unclean 
pickings. Miss Caddie’s long connection with 
Japan had spoiled her taste for beauty, that is to 
say, for Saxon beauty; thus the impressive court 
then sitting did not woo her to that close and 
ardent confidence she had anticipated. Never- 
theless, Miss Caddie, like her really good tea in 
the bequeathed tea-pot, was to be drawn, and find- 
ing her friends reserved was greatly mortified. 
Mrs. Lurch explained aside to dear Lady Com- 
darlington that her friend had left at home an 
inseparable and bosom-friend, whom she thought 
Miss Caddie felt grieved to leave there alone, al- 
though she would on no account have failed in 
her attendance upon Lady Comdarlington’s pleas- 
ure. At which the countess naturally expressed 
regret that Miss Caddie should have run away 
from her bosom-friend, and nothing would set it 
right but that she should send her own carriage 
for this friend of their friend Miss Caddie, who 
was entreated to write a tiny note at the elegant 
escritoire of the countess, and did so with a relish, 
sincerely desiring the invaluable bosom-one might 
be let in for a similar treat to that which had be- 
fallen herself. 


“Dear darling Kitty, it is all right. Mrs. Lurch 
has managed it; you are to come. Such an ex- 
quisite house (we are improving our visiting ac- 
quaintance, dear)! Don’t lose a minute; you 
will find a Honiton collar in the small drawer, 
and my curl comb on the looking-glass. Ever 
your attached friend, enjoying herself nibs ; 

OIG. 


“‘ And I hope she'll like it when she gets here,”’ 
said the tender-hearted correspondent, biting her 
lip and not knowing which way to look under 
those twenty-six fossil eyes, for the goddesses 
did not move nor speak, but sat staring stonily, 
watching events, and waiting. 

Mrs. Lurch (who was very rarely discomposed, 
least of all by people staring, for she always 
thought they were admiring her cap) and the 
countess kept the conversation from flagging ; 
but an agreeable diversion ensued owing to the 
unexpected arrival of the Hon. Mrs. Glover, with 
Miss Fanny Glover, accompanied by Lady Pep- 
per. These ladies being accustomed to good so- 
ciety, and in the habit of meeting mixed parties, 
were no way discomposed either; and when her 
ladyship said, “Now you will stay tea with us, 
and have a little quiet chat?” they, having come 
on purpose, did so; the truth being, as they soon 
explained (greedily caught up by the insatiable 


140 


goddesses), that they were greatly concerned about 
dear Lady Ellerby and Mr. Garland. He had been 
seen riding with her, seen to enter the house, both 
in the unsuspecting Lord Ellerby’s lamented ab- 
sence. It was very sad, it. was no business of 
theirs, they did not care a pin, but knowing how 
intimate their friend (the countess) was with both, 
they had just come to see if she knew a few par- 
ticulars. Such a shocking thing! They had al- 
ways thought so highly of the Minister. The air 
was thick with rumor, they feared something ter- 
rible was about to happen; they hated an expo- 
sure above all things, and having been members 
of his church it would be so much worse; it was 
a sort of reflection upon themselves ! 

At every fresh word the heads of those who 
had come purposely to try the case bobbed and 
craned, and the sensitive cartilage of their ears 
appeared to distend with hungry zest. Their 
leader was making mental note with the obsti- 
nate system of some uncommonly shrewd, sharp, 
and sour counsel. 

Miss Kitty Ticklewich arrived. She wore the 
dark green silk, with the Honiton collar. The 
sand-colored curis were adjusted with consum- 
mate care, and not in the least disarranged, for 
the clever Kitty availed herself of the opportu- 
nity to come without her bonnet. ‘They’ll be 
obliged to send me home as well if I don’t go in 
my bonnet,” reasoned the gushing maiden, never 
above taking an advantage. Another thing, it 
was not every day Miss: Ticklewich had the 
chance of being driven along in a carriage with 
a private crest upon the panels, therefore she 
would let her friends and the public well inspect, 
upon this occasion, her three-quarter, framed, 
bonnetless portrait, by keeping in good view of 
the rest of Brighton, plodding along upon foot. 
And the poor who passed—A7s pensioners—little 
thought her one of the witnesses sent for toward 
establishing the guilt of him who so entirely lived 
for others. 

Miss Kitty Ticklewich arrived just as Lady 
Comdarlington was saying, ‘ Well, I always told 
Flora what a duck of a man he was, but I had 
no idea she thought so too.” And further re- 
mark was checked by her ladyship rising to wel- 
come the winsome visitor. Miss Kitty’s artless- 
ness took at once. Although in years as old as 
the leading goddess, she was still one of those 
endearing creatures the whole band of sisters in- 
stantly felt they could pet and cherish; and the 
feeling spread, so good an effect dawned with 
the appearance of the vivacious Kitty. Miss 
Caddie, not to be out-shone in sweetness by her 
bosom-friend, relaxed visibly, and anon the as- 
sembly was like unto a bank of honey-bees. 

After tea, proceedings commenced. Over tea 
the talk was chiefly upon dress and local events. 
The countess, a martyr to languor, surrendered 
her post of honor to Miss Penelope, who acquit- 
ted herself with characteristic grace. Not un- 
usually, therefore, Miss Penelope retained the 
presidency afterward, and introduced the topic 
they were all dying to commence upon. Not 
having been a fashionable tea nor a dress occa- 
sion, but so entirely a homely meeting one with 
another, Lady Comdarlington complied with Miss 
Penelope’s request that tea should be had upon 
the table, in the good old-fashioned and thorough- 
ly comfortable manner. After tea the company 
remained still at the board, chatting pleasantly, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Miss Penelope at the head; and when the serv- 
ants had quitted the room, and there seemed an 
interlude of temporary quietude, she was sitting 
easily back in her chair and staring straight be- 
fore her, into vacancy it might be thought, but 
really into the complex and very serious matters 
about to engage their undivided attention. Miss 
Penelope, thus preoccupied, tendered a quiet ob- 
servation— 

“ How are the mighty fallen!” 

And immediately a hush fell upon the assembly ; 
the next moment every one was bursting to say 
something, and said it. Miss Penelope had un- 
loosed the carrion-hunters, and, vulture-like, they 
lost not 2 moment in descending upon their’ prey, 
as with one breath, the burden whereof was this— 


Lapy CompaRrLinGTon (diminuendo). “We are 
so surprised; our friend, whom we thought per- 
fection !” 

Lapy Pepper (espressivo). “It is quite a blow 
to us; we shall never trust any one again!” 

Hon. Mrs. GLovER (variamento). “One really 
doesn’t know whom to believe nowadays !” 

Miss Fanny Gover (sfuggito). “It’s scarcely 
nice to talk about, but what is one to do?” 

Mrs. Lurcu (pratico). “I’ve told Lurch he: 
ought to withdraw immediately, but he doesn’t 
see it.” 

Miss Cappie (quieto). “For a very long time 
I have had my suspicions ; it has quite upset me!” 

Miss TICKLEWICH (teneramente), “The best of 
men are the worst, and we’ve always thought so!” 

Miss Hese (puntato). ‘Apparently so spirit- 
ually minded! O whited:sepulchre !” 

Miss Puytuis (lamentoso). “One could weep 
over such a fall; how guarded one should be!” 

Miss Minerva (grandioso). ‘I am always fear- 
ful for these exalted people! It is very sad.” 

Miss Diana (crescendo). “I am sorry for the 
large number of families he has visited !” 

Miss Vesta (delicatissimo). ‘Only to think of 
the poor lost creature now at the Grange!” 

Miss Hermione (pianissimo). “I think I’ve 
heard there’s a Moat; hush-sh-sh!” 

Miss Circe (éndec?so). ‘‘He may have been 
greatly tempted, poor man! Alas! we do not 
know all!” 

Miss Dipo (debile). “It makes me feel quite 
faint; one can not bear too much! What’s the 
time ?” 

Miss Lepa (decissimo). “‘What is there bad 
enough to say of such a character ?” 

Miss TuEr1s (ardito). “Society should rise up 
against this traitor, and avenge itself!” 

“Miss IpHtGENta (impetuoso). “T think no min- 
ister has the right to remain unmarried !”’. 

Miss Evapne (¢ranguillo). “One should at all 
times be prepared for the worst.” 

Miss PENELOPE (ostinato). “But let us hear 
the facts of the case.” 


It can not be said there was a room full, for 
the Comdarlington residence was spacious, but 
there undoubtedly was a room full of noise when 
the council of twenty were all talking at once. 

“Yes,” said Miss Caddie; ‘before saying any 
thing, we should hear the facts of the case. These, 
as I understand them, are very serious—very se- 
rious ; indeed, a worse or more convincing or more 
extensive charge was never brought against any 
one!” . 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“ Quite true, Miss Caddie!’ said Aunt Penelo- 
pe, who thus far did not know what it was. 

“Tt resolves itself into a threefold accusation. 
First, the Minister decoys hither, by offering her 
needy father a comfortable curacy, a young girl 
whom he has known in some previous and I con- 
ceive less honorable sphere. Having had the girl 
brought to Brighton, he has the open audacity to 
remove her to a village hidden away amidst the 
Downs, where in a mysterious old house she is 
the captive of this perfidious Brigham Young. 
Ladies, you will be surprised at my bringing in 
the name of that heathen prophet; it is because 
the other accusatory clauses justify my use of an 
allusion to that person. For, not content with 
this horrible misdemeanor, he must needs seek 
also to entice away the affections of a beautiful 
young wife—I am thinking of Lady Ellerby, whom 
my dear friend Miss Ticklewich saw with her 
own eyes in close company with Mr. Garland in a 
shut-up carriage. Asif this were not enough, the 
worst case of all remains to be stated—there have 
been darkly mysterious goings on between the 
Minister and this Lady Lindon people are so fond 
of talking about; he has visited at her house and 
been admitted to her private boudoir—a privilege 
granted to no one else; he was at her reception, 
although nowhere else all the season; and lastly 
has gone down and taken apartments at a cot- 
tage close to her country-seat. Now, ladies ?” 

Miss Caddie had spoken; she felt she had 
spoken well, and had done her duty. 

“Bless you, my child !” murmured Mrs, Lurch, 
under her breath; and then, to Miss Penelope, “I 
am thankful I never would consent to take the 
Communion at the hands of Mr. Garland.” ‘ 

“Madam,” replied Miss Penelope, impressively, 
“my confidence in man is so slight I never have 
taken it, and until administered by one of our 

-own sex I never will.” 

Then Miss Penelope curtly turned to address 
the committee sitting upon the misdeeds of the 
apostate preacher. 

“We have all heard the report of our friend, 
put, I must say, in a concise and considerate man- 
ner—for this is not a nice or thankful duty that 
Miss Caddie has so delicately performed—and I 
am convinced it has been a painful office to speak 
as she has done; but don’t you trouble, my dear, 
you will have your reward. Now my sisters and 
myself have travelled about a good deal, and un- 
consciously to ourselves have had forced upon us 
a vast amount of the unpleasant side of the hu- 
man race; we acknowledge this, to the disgrace 
of mankind; conjointly we have tried to improve 
it, and have met with much opposition. From the 
days of Pharaoh downward man’s heart has been 
prone to hardness and perversity, and very often, 
I do assure you, it has been like trying to carve 
the rocks, so stubborn has been the reception ac- 
corded our efforts in the interests of decency and 
right.” (Noticing some whispering, Miss Penelo- 
pe stopped. It was her sister Dido who had of- 
fended ; she was just asking Miss Ticklewich if 
she had a biscuit in her pocket, that was all. 
And darling Kitty found one there; it had been 
there some months and without paper, and she 
whisperingly replied while handing it, “I hope 
you don’t. object to seeds, dear! It would ad- 
just the condiment flavor. Quite happy, Miss 
Dido answered, “ No, dear,” then, under the table, 
broke it in her pocket-handkerchief and convey- 


14] 


ed a portion to her mouth, which was constituted 
upon the same principle as a fish’s and required 
to be in perpetual motion. This it was which had 
aggrieved the presiding goddess, and it was not 
until quietness was restored that she would pro- 
ceed.) “If I understand the facts of this case 
aright, the crimes imputed to this person are, so 
far as our present information is to be relied 
upon, threefold; and we have a clergyman’s 
daughter and two ladies of title implicated. La- 
dies, it is a delicate piece of business !” 

“For my part,” whispered the countess to 
Lady Pepper, “I don’t see how they could help 
it. But, there, I give him up; he really carries it 
too far, you know. There’s moderation in all 
things, and a line must be drawn.” 

Miss Ticklewich gave a premonitory, almost a 
playful, little cough: Miss Ticklewich wished to 
speak. Miss Penelope glanced in her direction 
with condescension, as implying she might, if so 
disposed, address the tribunal. At first Miss 
Ticklewich seemed inclined to simper, but ulti- 
mately signified her readiness to look at the grave 
side of things by becoming apparently serious. 
“T think it well to say,” began the dark green 
and sand-colored vestal, ‘‘that when out walking 
the other day, my steps unconsciously wandered 
in the direction of Hawkingdean. [Simper.] Un- 
wittingly I walked around the garden boundary. 
Without knowing what I was doing, I found my- 
self gazing: between the thickly clustered trees, 
when I suddenly discerned two figures sitting 
close together.” (Simper.) 

“Yes?” The presiding lady, with elongated 
neck and rapt interest, in which the whole im- 
portant assembly joined, awaited with eagerness 
the revelation their dear friend was upon the eve 
of disclosing. 

“They were the Rev. Mr. Garland [seriously] 
and Miss Evelyn [very seriously]. They talked. 
I did not want to listen, but voices, which prompt- 
ed Joan of Arc to act contrary to her wishes, 
prompted me and whispered my duty. I listen- 
edt ) 
‘“‘' Yes 2”? Miss Penelope was scarcely able to 
restrain the virtuous impatience racking her Am- 
azonian frame. 

“They were talking of a child.” Every god- 
dess arose, reared, arching themselves, and red 
as capsicums. The other ladies, with the excep- 
tion of the countess, although not less agitated, 
retained their seats. Lady Comdarlington, with 
honeyed accents, remarked to the Hon. Mrs. 
Glover, “This is getting delicious, dear. But 
how could she help it? Bless me! I’ve given the 
wretch up. Did you ever know such a naughty, 
handsome, rakish, perfidious one ?” 

“J think, Fanny,” said the Hon. Mrs. Glover, 
with solicitude, addressing her only daughter, to 
whom, of course, this sort of thing was quite 
novel, “it will be as well if you leave the room, 
dear.” 

“Yes, ma.” Miss Glover, who looked the eld- 
er of the two, arose with her forefinger between 
her lips, her head inclined on one side, eyes mod- 
estly bent down, and slowly quitted the court. 

“Ts there any other lady who can’t stand this 
abominable exposure?” Asked by Aunt Penel- 
ope, with an expressive side look, conveying to 
her staff that it would be more decorous to rise 
and retire while the business of the court pro- 
ceeded with closed doors. But all declined to 


142 


catch their leader’s meaning this time, with the 
exception of Miss Dido, who trotted out in the 
wake of the various elegant confections that had 
graced the tea-table. 

Miss Kitty Ticklewich proceeded, amidst a si- 
lence painful in its intensity— 

“‘Miss Evelyn said, ‘If our little darling could 
but be brought here—and I see no reason against 
it—it is so retired, no one would be aware of it, 
and if discovered, could not possibly tell it to be 
yours.” 

With a stifled shriek, Miss Caddie sank back 
in her chair, feeling her laurels were already de- 
parting from her, and much she wished that Kit- 
ty had been left at home in obscurity. 


“* 


eee 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
ROSE RECEIVES AN INVITATION. 


OnE day Rose called upon Mr. Garland: he at 
once detected it was to tell him something. To 
this child was extended the privilege of doing 
as she pleased in his study. She knelt by the ta- 
ble at which he was sitting, and slowly taking a 
letter from her pocket she looked half sadly up 
in the face beside her. He knew there was 
something coming; the love he bore the child told 
him it was something to-part them. He thought 
very likely she was going to school—the general 
ending to a friendship with a pretty child. No; 
this was an invitation simply; she passed him 
the letter without explanation; it was addressed 
to Mrs. Blake. 

“ Am I to read this, Rose ?” 

She nodded assent and he read it. 


_ Tur Cottage, SLEPERTON. Tuesday. 


“My pear Mrs. Buaxe,—Our acquaintance in 
the summer, although brief, was so agreeable, 
that I have never ceased to think of yourself and 
dear little daughter with warm affection. I am 
only sorry I can not leave the Cottage or I should 
certainly pay a flying visit to Brighton, purposely 
to see you; but it is in your power to come and 
see me and make a nice long stay, bringing pretty 
Rose along with you. I will try to make you 
very comfortable, and I am quite sure your dear 
girl would enjoy the change; for although Sea- 
borough may be any thing but a cheerful place 
in winter-time, I assure you, at the Cottage we 
understand the happy art of passing the season 
pleasantly. I have not the privilege of knowing 
Mr. Blake, but I am sure, from all I have heard, 
he is kindness itself and will not stand in the 
way of your visit. At all events, if you can not 
come and see me, allow Rose to do so; I shall 
be in London for the day on Friday next, and 
could meet her at London Bridge, if you will 
write me the train convenient. And how have 
you been, dear? Very well, I trust; I hope to 
see you both looking more beautiful than ever. 

“You did me the honor to admire some of my 
sketches; I shall be happy to develop the taste 
for drawing which I am convinced your Rose 
possesses, 

“With kindest regards, believe me, very sincere- 
ly your friend, ANNA VINCENT.” 


He became rather thoughtful after reading it, 
and then asked— 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Well, what did mamma say ?” 

“‘¢ Bother the woman and her Cottage! If she 
knew how much I detest letter-writing, she would 
not take the trouble to write to me! ” 

The Minister smiled at the piece of philosophy. 

“‘But papa said he thought it very kind, a po- 
lite attention, and that it would be a nice little 
holiday for me.” 

“And what does Rose say to it?” asked the 
Minister, with anxious tenderness. 

“Tlike Mrs, Vincent; she was very kind to me.” 

“Which means that you would like to go?” 

“T should, if you could go.” 

“But I am not asked!” Playfully humoring 
her fancy. 

‘“‘Come and see me if I do go,” said the child, 
earnestly, “and perhaps we shall be able to look 
at some more of the pictures in the Manor- 
house.” 

‘““What would Mrs. Vincent think?” 

This was not to be answered, and Rose thought- 
fully returned the letter to her pocket. 

“But you have not told me whether you are 
going or not?” 

‘Mamma said, ‘She is undoubtedly clever, and 
it may be a good thing for Rose; papa said, ‘I 
do not think we ought to look at it in that light; 
your friend invites Rose as a guest, not as a pu- 
pil.” ‘Just so,’ said mamma, ‘but if she can, at 
the same time, be picking up some accomplish- 
ment, so much the better. When I was a girl I 


was never allowed to visit where I did not learn 
something.’ ” eo 

Rose delivered this with inimitable gravity, the 
Minister triflmg with his pen, trying, as he had 
often before tried, to reconcile the nature of child 
and mother. He was thrilled by her rising, com- 
ing close, and intwining an arm about him. “Do 


‘| you mind my going ?” 


It was so pretty, so thoughtful, he could not, if: 
he would, deprive her of the pleasure. 

“T? No, Rose, if it makes you happy. By- 
the-bye, do you know if her son is at home ?” 

A delicate blush overspread her cheeks; for a 
minute she seemed inclined to burst into tears. 

“T never thought of that. But what does it 
matter if he is? I shall always be at needle- 
work or something or other with Lorry’s mamma.” 

The Minister merely straightened the envelopes 
in the divisions of his case, placed stray sheets of 
note and letter paper in decorous companionship, 
folded half a quire of blotting-paper into book 
shape, and boxed up loose pens wandering and 
mixed ; then turned, taking hertohim. She knew 


his moods too well to wonder, and with a loving 
smile just nestled there. 

* * * * * * 

He felt dull when she was gone, was dull on 
the Thursday; and all day Friday his house- 
keeper saw but little of him, he was so busy 
writing in his study. She knew he prepared 
his sermon on Friday, and did not trouble him. 

On Saturday he called upon his poor. They 
thought him kinder than ever; he was always 
kindest when inwardly disturbed. 

On the Sunday he preached two of the most 
impressive discourses ever heard within that 
church. Beautiful Lady Ellerby did not rise to 
the last hymn, the spell of the preacher’s elo- 


quence was too much for her sensitive heart ; 
emotion caused her to tremble, and she dread- 
| ed lest it should be observed. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


He had been more than usually tried during the 
past week; all the efforts put forward with the 
hungering desire to discover the retreat of his wife 
and child had failed miserably, and he was very 
depressed in consequence. This more than any 
thing seemed to envelop him in shadow. At 
such times small things add to the weight op- 
pressing one; the departure of Rose was one of 
these: he looked upon the pew where a little face 
was wont to be, and saw the genial chemist, his 
imposing lady, and—a blank. 

He was very tired and pale. Going out, he met 
with one of his parishioners, who remarked at 
once how well he was looking; some people 
would address their stock congratulation to the 
dying. 

He was not well for all that, and on the Mon- 
day he drove to Hawkingdean. 

His parting instructions to the housekeeper in 
Brighton were, ‘“ Don’t send any letters on; I must 
be free from care for a day or two.” By the 
evening post a letter arrived, in child-like hand- 
writing, and bearing the Seaborough stamp. Mrs. 
Sanderson ventured to disobey her employer’s in- 
junction, and sent this letter on. Thus it came 
about the Minister received the following missive : 


“SLEPERTON, Sunday. 


“Dear Mr. Gartanp,—I did not tell you I 
would write, in case I couldn’t; but I meant to 
do so if it was possible, and I could write with- 
-out being looked over, which I don’t like at all; 
and this afternoon Mrs. Vincent is up in her room, 
and told me to make use of her desk and write to 
mamma, telling her lam enjoying myself. Ihave 
just done so, and now write a line to you, telling 
you Iam not enjoying myself because you are not 
with me—” 


Here there was a change into the elegant pen- 
manship of the accomplished widow— 


“J have just surprised our charming fairy at 
her confidence. Will you not make her happy 
by coming to see us, and staying some time at 
the Cottage? Pray do; I wish it, and shall think 
it a personal kindness. 
able, no ceremony, you are always welcome. We 
are quite alone, and Rose sadly wants some one 
to take her out; I go out so little in the winter.” 


He thought this an odd interpolation, but read 
on where the child had resumed the writing— 


“Tam to add my persuasion; you know how I 
wish it; come formy sake. I get so tired of walk- 
ing about by myself, and do so want some nice 
long walks before going home. A young lady is 
staying here, but she is unhappy and will not go 
out with me. I shall expect you with all my 
heart. Your loving Ross.” 


He decided to go instantly, would feel glad of 
the change. 
» That “young lady, unhappy,” lingered in his 
mind afterward. Curious, Mrs. Vincent had said, 
“We are quite alone ;” it looked very like ignor- 
ing the other inmate of the Cottage. The Minister 
had not been overimpressed by the genuineness of 
the lady at his first acquaintance; this, however, 
would not weigh in the balance if inclination 
prompted going. 


Come any time agree- |’ 


143 


It seemed another land by the white wintry 
view as the train approached Seaborough. A 
somewhat bare and bleak landscape, proving how 
incontestably the color and charm of the summer 
are needed to shed beauty upon the quieter English 
tracts. Mrs. Vincent greeted her distinguished 
guest with the warmest of welcomes, and the 
Minister thought she improved upon acquaint- 
ance. His little friend, remaining half shyly in 
the background, yet bursting to spring forward, 
was all reserve until the lady had retired to her 
domestic arrangements; she then went up to 
him with her exquisite caressing manner, and 
thanked him with simplicity and genuine sincerity 
for coming to see them. 

“But what about the young lady, Rose? I 
thought at first you were alone.” 

“Such a sweet young lady, but so sad! I can’t 
think why. Mrs. Vincent is not unkind to her. 
I fancy she is a boarder here, and yet Mrs. Vin- 
cent wouldn’t be likely to do any thing of that 
sort, being very well off, would she? Do you 
know,” Rose was very serious now, “‘ there is some- 
thing strange about it, for Mrs. Vincent seems to 
me to be always doing all she can to set the young 
lady against her guardian, a Mr. St. Aubyn, and 
yet he placed her here—as I understand it.” 

Little Rose had said her say and looked con- 
siderably perplexed, but her confidence in her . 
friend assured her that he would, if he could, 
explain away all the perplexity. And the Minis- 
ter was disturbed. He remembered the name, St. 
Aubyn, very well, and recalled Lord Ellerby’s nar- 
ration of the facts connected with the flight of the 
lovely wanderer. So he asked, “ Can you tell me 
what day this young lady came here?” She told 
him ; he compared dates, found it the day follow- 
ing that of the young lady’s departure from the 
artist’s woodland home, and said, “I should like 
to see her.” 

“She is always in her room, sits at the window, 
and doesn’t care to talk with any one but her 
servant.” 

“Her servant!” cried the Minister, with aston- 
ishment and pleasure; “a servant brought with 
her?” 

“Yes, and Mrs. Vincent does not half like it, 
I think. — She is very short with her, and the serv- 
ant is the same with Mrs. Vincent.” 

“All this is singular,” mused the Minister; 
“but I suppose I shall get to the bottom of it.” 

* * * * * * 


When Martha Saxe, upon leaving the presence 
of Mr. St. Aubyn, on the eventful night of their 
return, had gone up stairs to the chamber of her 
young mistress, she found that perverse but 
troubled beauty sobbing hysterically. This of all 
things struck a responsive chord, and Martha 
joined her, but found time to console her never- 
theless, and told her she was certain all would be 
well in the morning; the master would sleep on it, 
and receive her forgivingly when calmer. This 
had the effect of procuring a night’s rest for the 
child, broken, disturbed, uneasy, fitful, but better 
than no rest at all, and the good woman herself 
watched and slept, and slept and watched the 
night through in a chair beside the bed. 

The first thing in the morning Mrs. Vincent 
went to her future charge, and found her dressed 
and waiting for the call to breakfast, eyes red, 
cheeks flushed, brow aching. She introduced 
herself as a very old friend of Mr. St. Aubyn’s, the 


144 


friend of many years’ standing; and this dear 
girl, whom she would love so fondly, was to come 
and stay with her a while; she had a pretty resi- 
dence, and would make her so happy and com- 
fortable; and, she delicately added, this was Mr, 
St. Aubyn’s own wish and arrangement. 

Then Lena, supporting herself by resting a. lit- 
tle hand upon the dressing-table, looked St. Au- 
byn’s friend in the face, not defiantly, but with- 
out fear, and said, “I refuse to go with you. I 
don’t know you, and I don’t wish to. You are 
nothing to me. I will go to him; if he will not 
receive me—” 

“ He will not receive you. Mr. St. Aubyn has 
issued orders that he is not to be disturbed.” 

“Miss St. Aubyn issues orders here also, mad- 
am, or did, and it will not be from a stranger she 
will submit to be dictated to in this house.” 

Lena rung the bell with spirit, the elegant 
widow waiting the result with unmoved grace and 
sweetness. 

“Will you ask papa to come to me, or say I 
will go to him ?” 

She spoke hurriedly and feverishly, and the 
domestic was affected, delivering her message 
with pathetic earnestness, and returning slowly 
with this reply— 

‘““My master wishes me to say he is unwell this 
morning, and hopes you will excuse him for not 
seeing you. He has arranged matters with Mrs. 
Vincent, who will explain every thing to you, 
miss.” 

“ Will you be good enough to go and tell papa 
I have heard this lady’s explanation, and am not 
satisfied with it, and certainly shall not go away 
with her ? You can tell papa, please, I very much 
prefer returning to where I came from yesterday.” 

Mrs. Vincent saw in this the advancement of 
her own deep scheme, except in the event of St. 
Aubyn relaxing. No; she knew the suffering 
nature too well. Lena’s reply would only add 
fuel to the fire. 

The answer was transmitted—that Miss Lena 
was quite at liberty to act as she thought proper. 
The child melted then, her high spirits vanished 
before his icy indifference, and she wept bitterly. 


She knew now how passionately she had been’ 


loved, was still loved. Passive, utter, unrepining 
obedience would alone court, as time might bring 
about, the forgiveness she felt any penance would 
cheaply buy. She held out her hand to St. Au- 
byn’s friend. ‘ He wishes it; I will go with you. 
I am sorry I spoke rudely to you.” 

And the friend kissed her upon the brow, 
with— 

“Good child! This will please him so much. 
Come, now, let’s get your things together quietly, 
and we'll go on to my pretty home, dear, without 
further trouble to poor papa.” 

She cried again at that; she could fancy him 
shut in that lonely room, as none else could fan- 
cy it; saw him after she had gone, conceived the 
agony following; but she could be so true to him 
away there, could prove her past innocence by 
her scrupulous conduct in the future. It was a 
heart-breaking business, turning out all her odds 
and ends of apparel and adornment—lace trifles 


she had worn for his pleasure, ribbons that be-. 


came the blush-roses upon her cheeks and the 
sheaf of lustrous hair: his fingers would no more 
idle with. Her dresses were many as the months, 
she would only take the plainest. All was in or- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


der for packing. The dainty widow would not aid 
at the disagreeable office; the child had not the 
heart to summon the servant to help her; the 
slender and fragile hands were listless at the task, 
when Martha Saxe entered from breakfast and 
the kitchen’s criticism of events. 

‘““Never mind them, Miss Lena; I’ll put our 
things together, and good riddance, say I!” 

The girl looked up astonished, but with won- 
derful joy in her eyes. 

“T mean that you are not going from here 
without me, miss; we’ve stuck together so long, 
ik will do so to the end of the chapter, please 

od.” 

“This is a very great liberty, I think,” said the 
widow, with the utmost composure. 

“It's what we call French leave, ma’am, which 
in this case is better than no leave at all; but if 
it’s more satisfactory to you, Mr. St. Aubyn’s leave 
can be had likewise.” 

“Well, it will be much more satisfactory,” re- 
plied Mrs. Vincent, thinking the application to 
that gentleman would settle it very differently. 

Mrs. Saxe quitted the room. She betook her- 
self to the sanctum of the master, and was ad- 
mitted. With sorrow she witnessed the ravages 
of the struggle he had gone through; the equal 
friend of both, she felt deeply for this sensitive 
and stricken man, although, of course, not under- 
standing as Lena understood all the super-delica- 
cy of his suffering. He received her visit with 
pleasure, thinking well of the worthy soul whose 
devotion was idyllic in its unselfishness. 

“T hope you won’t feel offended, Sir, if I make 
bold to ask for granting of the request now, which 
I was to have, you said last night, whenever I put 
it. to you.” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Saxe, I will keep my word, 
pledged to you in my gratitude, and insufficient, 
in my opinion, whatever it may be, to reward the 
service you have rendered.” 

“Tt is that you will allow me to go with my 
dear young lady, wherever she is going, there to 
remain so long as her unsuspecting sin against 
you is unforgiven? Man is harder as well as 
more foolish than Providence, I reckon.” 

The words were as knives; but her request 
pleased him more than he would reveal. 

“Yes, you can accompany her, and—and”— 
his voice trembled over this—‘ send me a line 
now and then, telling me of—of your welfare. 
Never mind the writing, Mrs. Saxe,” for he saw 
her hesitate; “I shall not look at that.” 

He had mistaken her hesitation. She would 
write without fear; had taken care to learn that 
useful art, long, long ago, before the needle-work, 
or the washing, or the baking. 

“‘T was just thinking, begging your pardon, Sir, 
that if so be as you would care to hear of our 
young lady, won’t it be better not to let her g0 at 
all 2”? 

He arose at that, stern and unyielding, in one 
of those suseeptible moods when a hair turns the 
scale, and fearing the permission would be in jeop- 
ardy, she thought it prudent to ask for a line to 
Mrs. Vincent, authorizing her attendance upon the 
young lady; and St. Aubyn wrote this at once, 
Martha bearing to that lady the mandate. 


“Martha Saxe, attached servant, will go with 
Lena, as maid. ‘This will be an advantageous ar- 
rangement. ay 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“T don’t know,” said the widow, curtly to her- 
self, viewing the intrusion with strong distaste. 
But so it was to be, and it thus came about that 
Lena’s banishment was rendered just bearable. 

The policy adopted by the widow was to fan 
and.increase St. Aubyn’s jealous displeasure by 
all means in her power, which were not slight, es- 
pecially by cunningly framed letters, and to lead 
Lena, if she anyhow could do so, to think un- 
lovingly and with aversion of him, having “ cast 
her off !” as Mrs. Vincent said, and emphasized 
with a degree of soft and subtle apparent dissat- 
isfaction at St. Aubyn’s conduct, which could not 
but produce an impression. 

* * * * * * 

And that evening, writing to St. Aubyn, the wid- 
ow said— 


“T know you will sympathize with me, aware, 
as you are, of the resources of my poor house, when 
I tell you I have been surprised by a visit from 
the fascinating Minister, the literary Bayard you 
heard me speak of. I very much fear I shall 
have to report to you that the motive is in con- 


- nection with the Manor: one of his first questions 


concerned the health of her ladyship. I shall be 
so grieved if this is the case, but will write you 
again in the course of a day or two, and mean- 
time will keep my eyes open in your interests. I 
will endeavor to prevent his seeyng Lena, if pos- 
sible, but he is an awful character to keep under, 
if there is a pretty girl about.” 


This devilish epistle found him prostrate enough ; 
it well-nigh finished him. Yet it is odd how the 
heart clings with despairing tenacity to straws! 
She was only surmising ; she had not really noticed 
any thing; there were no grounds for her suspi- 
cions, and she might be mistaken. Was he nota 
minister of the Gospel? could such a one err thus 
criminally? Well, it was long since he had read 
newspapers, but he remembered hearing afore- 
time that instances had been of the minister prov- 
ing all too human; but he hoped on, as we do, 
with that melancholy and yearning which must 
be so pathetic in the sight of Heaven. And then 
arrived another letter— 


“My worst fears are realized; he has visited 
Lady Helen each day; and as though this were 
not enough, has forced himself upon Lena, and 
in spite of all my efforts to prevent it they are 
continually in each other’s company. Can I tell 
you the extent to which I sympathize with you? 
But bear up; be strong; you, we, will conquer yet. 
Wiil write again soon.” 


The result of this was to perfect the poisonous 


work, when the bitterness seemed indeed to have 


— 


reached its utmost height. 

Still, it was all true, quite true, this black 
charge. Mr. Garland had visited Helen each day, 
had foreed himself upon Lena, and they weve con- 
tinually in each other's company. Very dread- 
ful, by Mrs. Vincent’s ghastly showing, but that 
was not the Minister’s view of the matter. 

Finding Lena would not come down, and cor- 
rectly divining the cause, Mr. Garland sent a 
kind message by Rose to say that he was a cler- 
gyman, and should be happy to have a little quiet 
talk with her. . 

True to her programme of perfect faithfulness, 

Vou, 1.—K 


145 


Lena returned a civil excuse, although in her 

heart feeling that if she could confide all to this 

ee friend, what a relief it would afford to 
er. 

The Minister wrote a line or two the next day 
and gave it to Martha Saxe, for he felt, instinct- 
ively, that she was trustworthy. Mrs. Vincent 
was away shopping when the Minister’s messen- 
ger delivered this note to the solitary child he 
would befriend. 


“‘Do not fear to see me; I have a loved daugh- 
ter of my own, who may even now sadly need a 
friend. If you are troubled and sorrowing I may 
help you.” 


“ And a very kind-spoken one he is, my dear; 
and if I were you I'd just tell him the story from 
beginning to end.” 

“Do you think so, Martha? Dare I? 
a little wretch he will pronounce me!” 

“Chance that; deal truthfully with him, and 
leave the rest.” 

‘“‘ And you advise it ?” 

“JT do. Worse can’t come of it, better may. 
Shall I go and tell him to come up stairs ?” 

“Good gracious, no! What would Mrs. Vin- 
cent make of it? I will go down to him.” 

And she did so, and met him with the prettiest 
expression her always pretty face had ever worn, 
partly sad, partly sorry, half glad, half timid, and 
pouting with a little rebellious curve, as though 
anticipating being called to account. 

But he took her hand so gently and unofficial- 
ly, and with so easy an air, as if they had been 
known to one another a long time, that she felt 
at rest immediately. 

And he upon his side was much impressed by 
her youthful beauty. Truly had Lord Ellerby pre- 
sented a life-like copy. 

“To make the most of our time, Miss Lena 
(you see I am not the stranger you took me for), 
tell me if I am right in supposing you quitted 
Lord Ellerby’s to return to Mr. St. Aubyn’s, and 
that gentleman, displeased by your mistaken 
freak, refused to accept the penitence you would 
have tendered ; is it not so?” 

“Tt is true,” replied Lena, flushing with pain, 
and much surprised at the whole story being 
known or guessed by this calm, kind stranger. 

“Tt proves a great love, Miss Lena, to cast the 
object loved from it as in this case.” 

‘““T know it. I can not tell you how much he 
loved me—” 

“ And still loves you. Ido not need to be told. 
It is an unfortunate occurrence, sad for both, ex- 
tremely difficult to re-adjust. As soon as my en- 
gagements permit of it, I will go on to the north 
and see Mr. St. Aubyn.” 

Lena shook her head. 
unavailing.” 

“Tf men were deterred by such fears, there 
would never be any good done except beneath the 
shadow of their own chimneys. But you will tell 
me exactly al/ that befell you while away. Ican 
not say I hold with confession to the priest in the 
general way, but in this instance it is commend- 
able. Do not be afraid to tell me any thing; I 
pledge you my word not to repeat any portion of 
the story you wish me to keep to myself.” 

She told him every thing, as he believed, with 
frank truthfulness. 


What 


“The journey will be 


146 


Then he placed a hand upon each shoulder, 
and looking down into the clear eyes,.he said, 
“Thank you, for honesty at least. Our friend 
need never fear while his little girl remains thus 
candid. Make yourself contented; I will help 
you.” And he sent her back to the chamber 
lighter-hearted.. 


“T hope you won’t go home until after the | 


fair.” Thus Rose, who expected much enjoyment 
of this annual holiday-making, of which she had 
often heard glowing accounts. 

“You wish me to take you to it?” 
ded. 

“Tt is held here on the Green, and the shows, 
I suppose, are splendid.” 

“Are they, indeed? I don’t think it will be 
quite the place for either of us. You must go 
back with me instead, and I will take you some- 
where in London.” 

Rose thought she would prefer the fair, and 
said so, 

“Promise me you will just take me round, at 
all events, to look at the pretty things.” 

“Well, there may be no great harm in that. 
Perhaps I will.” 

It made the child happy, therefore the Minis- 
ter was content. 

_ In the afternoon he paid his respects to Lady 

Lindon. The Manor-house now presented a very 
different appearance to what it did upon the Min- 
ister’s first acquaintance.. Its sumptuous fittings 
and magnificent furniture rather startled this 
man of simple tastes. Surrounded by a court- 
like retinue, difficult of approach as some sover- 
eign, rarely seen by the gossips, who knew but by 
hearsay of her haughty isolation, Lady Helen 
here enjoyed a privacy she had not sought in 
Brighton, where, indeed, she endeavored to dis- 
pel_care by participating in.the usual round of 
time-killing engagements,. in which society ex- 
pends the better half of its hours. None of it 
had banished the memory of him believed lost, 
who now seemed from this far-away aspect so 
noble and good... ‘‘ Why did I not see it then /” 
was the endless lament in her. saddened heart. 
United with this was the memory of her children. 
‘Were one or both of these recovered, I should 
have something then to live for.” The Minister’s 
call was an agreeable surprise. 

“‘T did not suppose I should have the pleasure 
of seeing you of all people. Iam very glad!” 

“Thank you. Presuming upon a brief ac- 
quaintance with Mrs. Vincent, who is entertain- 
ing a little friend of mine, I obtained leave of 
absence of my kind helpers, and stole off for a 
few days. J came here in the summer, and was 
greatly taken with the pleasant walks about.” 

“Tt will be a rest for you.” 

“Not altogether. Even here I have open to 
me a duty of some embarrassment, which, how- 
ever, I may not neglect. It matters little where 
my path lies, I am sure to find some one in need 
of a friend with a thinking head, a feeling heart, 
a helping hand.” 

“You are very self-denying and good,” mur- 
mured Lady Lindon. “Some one of our cot- 
tagers, I suppose? The class is always ready at 
narrating woes and crosses in a kindly disposed 
ear.” 

“Tt is as well, if it gain them sympathy. But 
it is in the house of my hostess this time. <A 
young lady boarder placed there by her mortally 


Rose nod- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


displeased guardian, in consequence of the said 
young lady having quitted her home during his 
absence, gone to London, and met with the shel- 
ter offered by a good-natured, thoughtless artist 
friend of ours. This is, in fact, one of the inno- 
cent causes of poor Lady Flora’s distress of mind. 
Odd, how things come round, is it not ?” 

“Yes. But how comes she here, of all places ?” 

“Mrs. Vincent is a friend of her guardian’s, 
and was in the house at the time of her return. 
Naturally he consigned her for a season to the 
care of this friend.” 

“And she could not be in worse or more 
treacherous hands.” 

‘““You know Mrs. Vincent ?” 

“Tused to. She brought about all my trouble. 
Had it not been for her— But there, it-is useless 
recurring to that time. What are you Song, to 
do for this miserable little sinner ?” 

“Reconcile them, and restore her, of course.” 

“T wish you joy of your task !” 

“T donot look to tasks for joy—that will come 
afterward.” 

The Minister retired, and was seen proeceding 
from the Manor to the Cottage by, to compute 
mildly, half a hundred eyes. 

Mrs. Tapper, from her station in the bar of the 
Linpon ARMs, saw, speculated, worked it out with 
a piece of thought in her mind, and by aid of 
multiplication balanced it to her satisfaction. 
Mrs. Wallis, of the iron store, was, as she said, 
riveted by sight of that figure walking from the 
large gate, along the roadway bordering the 
Green, and in at the Cottage of the widew. Mrs, 
Rice saw, and said she had an idea something 
more than usual was going on; Mrs. Rice knew 
the stranger’s name by his letters passing through 
her office. All the village and village street were 
exercised in consequence, and proud Lady Lin- 
don’s name was in every one’s mouth. They had 
so waited for something to talk about, and now 
they had got it, and made admirable use of it. 
The fish-monger, Smelt, was driving his cart on 
the other side of the Green, and happening to 
turn at the time, saw it likewise, and Smelt’s cart 
became for the nonce important as the Roval 
Mail. Uriah Sticky, the grocer, who supplied 
Mrs. Rice wholesale, was on his way thither with 
samples, and Uriah Sticky saw, and moaned, for 
the harlot spoken of in the book of Revelation 
had direct reference, he believed, without any 
prejudice, to Lady Lindon, who bought her gro- 
ceries from London. And Vault, the stone-ma- 
son, just coming from the church, also saw; Lady 
Lindon, he had been told, wore mourning for his 
lordship, and Vault was heard to remark there 
was more plaster of Paris than quarry polish 
about, and this was considered a very dark say- 
ing; was regarded as occult, not being under- 
stood, the mason being looked upon with especial 
awe, as to some extent in open account with the 
church-y ard. 

Mr. Garland was also seen by Major and Mrs. 
Howard, who were even then driving up to the 
Cottage. 
ceremony; the stranger might be looking; the 
stranger was looking! 

Mrs. Major Howard marched majestically up 
the garden path, leaning upon the Major’s arm, 
and followed by the spruce tiger, bearing the 
military rug; for it looked like snow again. 

‘“‘Good-morning !”” said the Major to the party, 


o ~ 


Mrs. Major Howard alighted with great. 


o 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


with his customary salutation. ‘“ Good-morning ; 
out for a little drive; hadn’t seen you since in 
church on Sunday. My wife said, ‘We will call 
on our friend ;’ I was very pleased; but bless my 
soul, I beg your pardon; you have company; no 
idea any one was here! Mrs. Howard, our friend 
has guests; we will retire. Here, boy, take the 
rug back!” 

“Not at all,” remonstrated the polite widow; 
“allow me to introduce you? Mr. Garland, of 
Brighton—Major and Mrs. Howard!” 

Major and Mrs. Howard could not have de- 
ported themselves with more elaborate finish had 
they been at- court. 

“This is indeed an honor,” said the Major, in 
a low voice, but sufficiently loud for the person 
interested to hear. 

“ Major,” put in Mrs. Howard, with feeling, “I 
always told you I believed we should one day 
see Mr. Garland; it has long been the ambition 
of my life!” (half to the Minister, who, with Rose 
by his side, was turning over a portfolio of Mrs. 
Vincent’s sketches.) 

“My dear,” replied the Major, a shade of re- 
proach in his voice, “ when in the army I was 
well disciplined to believe nothing certain until 
accomplished; to-day I can congratulate you, my 
dear, upon the realization of your favorite proph- 
ecy !” and, hand on heart, the Major bowed with 
precise etiquette to his lady. 

The Minister found some difficulty in preserv- 
ing his gravity. This was. a new type of being, 
and Rose was an awkward companion; her ex- 
pressive’ eyes were flashing with merriment. 

“J.et me take your bonnet, dear; you will stay 
tea with us?” Mrs. Vincent stood waiting, the 
Major’s lady hesitated; then she said, playfully, 
“Well, [don’t know, really! I must ask the Ma- 
jor.” 
ms Afraid we’re intruding,” said that gentleman, 
- with gallantry; then, looking full at the Minister, 
~ “but there, I really don’t think Icaz refuse to-day.” 

Mrs. Howard crossed over to Rose. ‘ Won’t you 
give me a kiss, my dear? Ah! I thought you 
would; and now tell me, how is mamma?” 
While thus favoring the child with her attention, 
the Major’s lady contrived to shake back a pro- 
fusion of real lace around her open sleeve, for 
the purpose, possibly, of dazzling the Minister by 
her white arm, whereon rested an imitation gold 
bracelet. Then veering round with august effect, 
and waving the hand belonging to the said arm 
toward Mrs. Vincent, which sent the sleeve up to 
the elbow (for she remarked that he had not 
been looking during the preliminary by-play), 
the lady drew Mrs. Vincent’s attention to the ex- 
quisite moulding of the little girl’s forehead. 
“She will be a great musician, Anna! You are 
fond of music, my dear, I can see.” 

“No, ma’am, I don’t like it at all.” — 

The Major marched to the scene of action, and 
described the brow with finger and thumb, turn- 
ing to his wife reprovingly. “ My dear, you were 
in error; these organs indieate intellect. Do you 
' remember the great Duke’s forehead, my love ?” 

“Dear Duke!” murmured Mrs. Howard, with 
broken emotion, and using a deeply lace-border- 
ed pocket-handkerchief. “Ah! what a friend 
we lost in him! I will go with you, dear,” to 
Mrs. Vincent, and the two left the room. 

Mr. Garland had never felt so uncomfortable as 
with this curious pair. 


147 


The Major stood erect and commanding, look- 
ing down upon this man of the Church, with the 
child and the sketches, and his gravely gentle 
manners, and all at once exclaimed, “Sir, you 
have consecrated your life to a noble cause. I 
used to think my profession an honorable one, 
but, Sir, yours is the’ mainspring of all human 
love and charity. I shall never forget last en- 
gagement I was in; poor fellow saved my life; 
quite a Christian, Sir. After his noble deed, by 
which he lost both arms and a leg, ‘ Let us return 
thanks,’ he said, meaning that my life was spared 
to my country. When the Duke heard of it he 
gave orders, ‘Bring that man before me, I will 
reward him.’ He was not to be found. From 
that time I have felt unhappy; he might be in 
want. Imagine my surprise last week, poor beg- 
gar limped to the portico of my residence. Ta- 
bitha, my maid, about to give him some bread 
and cold meat and send him off, I recognized him 
by a sear: ‘Stay! I eried; ‘it is he, by Mars!’ 
and I pressed on to the vestibule, seized his 
hands in mine, and besought him to come in and 
rest !” 

The Major paused, too affected by the vivid 
recollection of the pathetic meeting to remember 
that the man had no arms; paused, not to take 
breath, but to lower his voice to a confidential 
pitch, softly begging Rose to run and look out of 
the window. Complying, with a comical air, she 
left them for the window; then the Major con- 
tinued, “I have tried to help him from my limit- 
ed income: I have looked upon it in a brotherly 
light as due from one comrade to another, and I 
have represented the case to my friends, who 
have nobly responded, one with ten pounds, an- 
other with five, according to means and large- 
ness of heart; ‘freely ye have received, freely 
give? We have much to be thankful for, Mr. 
Garland, in the blessings of peace ; and when this 
poor fellow lost his legs for us, that our country- 
men might live at home undisturbed by the ene- 
my, such a contemplation is to me the sublime 
witness of our national completeness as a body. 
‘ Devotion,’ said the old Duke, ‘is the backbone 
of the English character, and the unselfish giving 
of your all is the marrow of that devotion !’ and 
when this poor, noble-hearted fellow, sightless, 
was led by that little dog right up to the very 
door-step of his old officer, it was almost more 
than I could bear; it was, indeed, Mr. Garland!” 

The Minister was about to express commisera- 
tion at the pitiable condition that the man, arm- 
less, legless, and sightless, and led by the little 
dog, must have presented, when Mrs. Major How- 
ard entered the room, and was rewarded by a 
savage look from her commandant. Despite hav- 
ing marred the Major’s tactics, the Major's lady 
appeared truly resplendent, and as she sank upon 
a chair, striking out her toe to make her silk set 
effectively, she had all the mien of a lady of the 
first water. 

“T was just telling Mr. Garland of the poor cor- 
poral’s case, my dear, and remarking how much 
we ought to be thankful for !” 

The lady had not heard of the poor corporal 
before, but quite understood the valiant Major’s 
remark. She turned with a winning expression 
to the Minister. 

“My dear husband is so tender-hearted, an in- 
estimable trait in a military man, generally sup- 
posed to be a little callous, I believe; but the 


148 A MODERN MINISTER. 


Major was never Jupiter tonans, Mr. Garland; his 
savoir-vivre procured him the special commenda- 
‘ tion of the great Duke. I am even now using up 
the cuff of his undress regimentals for pen-wipers 
I am making to send to a bazar in Dublin. I 
don’t know how your ladies find it, but I can not 
get materials enough for making up; and where 
there are so many calls one can not keep buying. 
Some of our friends are very good. ‘Here, Mrs. 
Howard, lay this out for us to the best advantage.’ 
It takes up a deal of time, but one ought not to 
study that in a good cause.” 

Dr. Hunter, the leading practitioner of Sea- 
borough, was seen walking up the garden path. 
Of course none but the leading man would have 
been able to advise upon the imaginary ailments 
to which Mrs. Major Howard, following fashion- 
able precedent, was constitutionally subject. The 
Major entertained the same objection to settling 
accounts with medical men as with other folks, 
and from the same motives. Dr. Hunter never 
had been settled with; there was a seven years’ 
account for fees and medicines waiting to be ar- 
ranged for, If the doctor casually alluded to it, 
the Major would say, in an off-hand manner, that 
his friends Jenner and Ferguson had never sent 
him in a billin their lives. It was perfectly true, 
they never had. In this case the doctor cured 
much upon the principle his patient recovered— 
by faith. Still, the Major conscientiously avoided 
the gentleman, and when he was seen approach- 
ing, the Major arose, remarking that he must be 
going. ‘I never can consent to meet those fel- 
lows; ever since the surgeon attached to our am- 
bulance insulted me, my antipathy has been ex- 
treme. This man Hunter is very clever; very 
clever, I believe, but I do not like him; he is one 
of the persons I admire most at a distance. I 
am sure you will excuse me retiring to another 
room until Asculapius has gone ?” 

Dr. Hunter had been told of the extraordinary 
event, how that the clerical friend of the mysteri- 
ous widow had been seen leaving the Manor- 
house, and Dr. Hunter, who of necessity knew the 
Minister by reputation, was extremely interested. 
Any incident calculated to stir things a little in- 
terested Dr. Hunter, who would have thought it 
an improvement upon existing stagnation had 
Lady Lindon been visited by all the clergymen in 
Christendom; indeed, the doctor once said to 
Vault, in reference to the church-yard, “It is 
hardly worth keeping it inclosed for its purpose. 
Better turn it over to the graziers; people here- 
about think a good deal more of mutton than of 
physic, and as for the ground, it don’t pay a per- 
centage!” But this new-comer was decidedly 
looking ill, in fact, seemed worn out by work or 
anxiety, and his pale face was in decided contrast 
to the ruddy countenances of the Sleperton and 
Seaborough men and women, living between the 
splendid sea one way and the odorous country the 
other. Dr. Hunter devoutly hoped that the dis- 
tinguished stranger hadn’t come for nothing; it 
would be some compensation to read in one of the 
select journals to which he, as an educated man, 
subscribed so regularly, and received by post di- 
rect from the office, ‘‘ We regret to learn that the 
Rev. Westley Garland, during his visit to Sea- 
borough for a few days’ rest, has been taken sud- 
denly ill. He is, we understand, progressing sat- 
isfactorily in the skilled hands of Dr. Hunter.” 
It pleased the doctor, and he thought, “ Pll go and 


look him up, see how he holds; shall tell in a 
minute if he is likely to be down.” And he did so. 
He had not seen him close before, and looked 
with the true audacious scrutiny of the privileged 
medical man. He found the Minister decidedly 
pale, certainly care-worn, emphatically harassed, 
but, as he put it to himself with keen disgust, 
“hearty as a buck!” And the doctor felt dis- 
heartened. “It is astonishing how some of these 
studious men do last out; I declare they’re just 
like leather!” Thinking which the doctor seated 
himself for a few minutes’ sociable conversation. 

“* Have you heard from your son lately?” To 
the widow, who, with graceful warmth, replied, 
“This very morning.” 

“Mr. Lorry is a good judge; it*is rather bleak 
here just now. You find this place try you after 
the genial air of Brighton, Sir?” 

“ Not at all; [think it several degrees warmer.” 

“Well, upon my word, I never heard that opin- 
ion before : you astonish me!” 

“As a rule, Sir, local men are too interested to 
express their candid opinions.” 

‘Oh, Mr. Garland !” eried the widow, coquettish- 
ly, “ how naughty of you to be so hard upon your 
sex!” 

“Tt is quite unintentional, my dear madam; I 
simply report the result of commonplace observa- 
tion. I imagine this to be a very healthy and sa- 
lubrious part of the country.” 

‘“‘Oh yes,” said the doctor, glumly, “the people 
haven’t much to complain of; yet the farmer 
grumbles, and the tradesman laments the badness 
of the times, but so, I suppose, they have from time 
immemorial. Things can’t be so bad since they’re 
all engaged at testimonial-making.” This the 
doctor uttered as though contemning equally the 
object and the promoters, but with a shadow of 
interest, as though he would have no objection to 
become the bearer of any donation toward the 
purpose in view if the Minister might feel dis- 
posed to favor him therewith. Mr. Garland was 
gradually experiencing that even the rural Elysi- 
um is not exempt from its principles of greed. 

“IT have heard something of this,” said Mrs. 
Vincent. ‘‘ What is it all about ?” 

‘“‘ Well, it is found necessary, for some inscrut- 
able reason, to present Mr. Elsynge of Froggypond 
with a testimonial, and all well-to-do people are 
called upon to subscribe. ™ 

“They have not been to me yet,” replied the 
widow, with an air of resignation. “ How is the 
eccentric mistress of Froggypond ?” 

“Thank you, the old lady continues very hearty.” 
Dr. Hunter had been physician-in-chief to the 
Elsynge family for a very long time, but as nei- 
ther the lady nor her grandson had ever ailed any 
thing, the appointment was a sinecure. 

““Mr. Elmore will come into considerable prop- 
erty there; not much need for a testimonial, I 
should think.” 

“Jt appears exceedingly doubtful, madam, 
whether Mrs. Elsynge will make up her mind to 
depart this life before Mr. Elmore” (correcting 
himself) ; “ that respected lady is happily possess- 
ed of a magnificent constitution.” 

The doctor departed; the Major and his lady 
returned to the room, 

“Strong smell of drugs !” taking out the enam- 
elled snuff-box. “Odd thing, but people are sure 
to drop in just as one is sitting down to tea. I 
think I heard mention of my friend Elsynge’s tes- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


timonial. This box was a testimonial, Sir, present- 
ed me by the great Duke. ‘Howard,’ said he, ‘ac- 
cept it’ (though I really didn’t like to, "knowing it to 
have been his constant companion), ‘ and think of 
me sometimes with esteem.’ Here his eyes became 
dim ; I lowered the colors, when he revived in an 
instant, grasped my hand, and murmured, ‘ The 
knowledge of your esteem and my Queen’s appro- 
bation lightens this trial;’ and so passed away.” 
Mrs. Howard was heard to murmur, “ Dear Duke!” 
in a voice of deep emotion. The Major handed 
the box to Mr. Garland, who justly admired and 
then returned it. Handsome of its kind, it had, 
years ago, been borrowed at Baden, and, in accord- 
ance with the Major’s invariable policy, never re- 
turned. ‘Thus, you will understand,” continued 
Major Howard, “the interest, the fraternal inter- 
est, I take in testimonials; and respecting, as I 
do, my old friend Elsynge, you will readily imag- 
ine I at once consented to form a branch subscrip- 
tion fund, and undertook the sole responsibility 
of the same, in order, my dear Sir, to ease these 
heavily tried business people, whose time is so 
valuable, to some extent of the onerous labor. I 
wrote to a friend of mine in the Grenadier Guards, 
‘Will you subscribe to the Elmore Elsynge testi- 
monial?’? He knew us both, no need for formal 
representation. No answer came. ‘ Nota mean 
fellow, I do hope! thought I; then wrote again, 
‘Will you, or will you not join us? Handsome 
piece of plate, the Froggypond memorial.’ Then 
came a check for ten guineas. I have several 
friends at a distance wishing to help; officially 
announéed subscription list open at Alderman 
Gubbins, so it is. I prefer to hide my little light 
under a bushel, and to collect privately from the 
circle I immediately know toward this represent- 
ative object. We should all do what little we 
can, Mr. Garland. Mrs. Howard said it was infra 
dig. ; I thought otherwise; man should trample 
upon his prejudices. One day at mess our adju- 
tant brought out dice. Now I hate all gambling 
and play, and lottery speculation is contrary to 
my principles, but I not only expressed no dis- 
pleasure, but actually joined my subordinate ina 
quiet game, for the simple purpose of assisting 
him in a harmless recreation ; an engagement was 
pending, and as it is half the battle to keep up 
the spirits of your men, he exclaimed, somewhat 
excitedly, as he shuffled the pack, ‘I—’ ” 

“Dice, Major,” his lady quietly interposed; 
then aside to her friend, ‘“‘ Dear man, his mem- 
ory is so bad!” 

« Yes, my dear, I thank you. 
throw, when—” 

Here the Major was interrupted by the en- 
trance of Mrs. Vincent’s servant with a card 
upon a tiny salver. 

“ Ah! my landlord, Mr. Elmore Elsynge. Show 
Mr. Elsynge into the drawing-room.” 

“My dear,” said the Major, reproachfully, to 
his lady, “ we quite forgot to write those letters. 
We must return at once, to save the evening 
post.” 


He was about to 


Sean cane 


CHAPTER XXXV. 
AT SLEPERTON FAIR. 
SLtePperToN Farr was looked forward to with 


much eagerness, and was the one event kept up 
anmually with great spirit. 


149 


swains for miles around, each with his lass; the 
staid folk with their children. It was a wonder- 
ful gathering, was Sleperton Fair, and great was 
the jollity and merriment. Thither came all the 
shows and roundabouts that could anyhow get 
there. Wax-work exhibitions, wild-beast cara- 
vans, shooting galleries, swings, gingerbread, toy 
and tofty stalls, and sweet-stuff barrows, Booths 
were erected for sparring, wrestling, quoits, and 
eating and drinking. Upon that peaceful circle 
of green there met together the monstrosities and 
wonders native to the English fair, and a highly 
animated scene it was, especially at nine o’clock 
in the evening, when lighted up and swarming 
with the ruralites all agape at the marvels and 
scattering their money broadcast. They saved 
all the year for this, and then spent on principle. 
Three days the fair lasted, and during that time 
the hamlet was given over to revelry. Old Eng- 
lish sports and new English sports ran their round 
with zest. Every year the site of honor was tak- 
en up by a circus, which the proprietors by pre- 
arrangement so determined that two should not 
journey there together, and that it should be a 
different one each fair time. To the left of this 
was a show of the Richardson type; to the right, 
but naturally covering more ground than the 
theatre, was Maneater’s far-famed Royal Menag- 
erie. Near the theatre would be found the cele- 
brated Chinese manikins, next to which the In- 
dian jugglers and serpent-charmers, and beyond 
the Indians, the court marionettes. Mrs. Man- 
eater (Mr. Maneater had come to an untimely end 
in one of his lion-taming exploits) had for a 
neighbor the largest Punch and Judy travelling, 
next to which was the Asiatic giant, attended by 
the performing fleas, the hairless horse, and the 
entrancing Circassian beauty. As the outside 
music of each show was in rivalry, the din and 
clangor can be imagined. Sleperton Fair, indeed, 
made as much noise as it is possible for a fair to 
make, and if noise attracts people, as it seems to 
do, it was perfectly successful here. The trom- 
bones, saxhorns, euphonia, gongs, drums, cym- 
bals, tambourines, and other instruments, wen 
at it as though after this fair their opportunity 
for arousing a disturbance would be forever 
gone. At the top of the steps, beside the gilded 
dragon portals giving ingress to her unrivalled 
exhibition, sat the redoubtable Mrs. Maneater 
beating a drum and proclaiming with all the 
strength of her voice that the animals were just 
going to be fed; a process well known to work 
upon the public interest, and cunningly, extended 
by feeding one animal at a time, which agreeable 
office fell to the lot of a brawny individual spe- 
cially retained to groom the denizens of the des- 
ert. Mrs. Maneater was a lady of florid belong- 
ings. All her life long she had been connected 
with, and was as fond of, her savage tribe as 
though she were their mother. Of - easy-going 
temper and kind heart, the well-to-do widow of 
the lion-tamer was a general favorite and upon 
good terms with the several branches of the ex- 
hibiting profession. Time after time she had 
phalanxed her vans beside the various travelling 
circuses; she knew all the proprietors and the 
members of the companies. If she arrived first 
and had camped, she would lend the brawny one 
to help the others to peg and build; if she ar- 
rived last, she received as readily many a lift 


Thereto went all the | from the strong-handed of the tent, who shunted 


150 


her caravans and formed a caged quadrangle in 
no time. Mrs. Maneater sat at her drum, a tin 
treasury by her side, into which she poured the 
handfuls of sixpences from her apron while the 
crowd flocked in. There was no professor to dis- 
course natural history in exquisite English; Mrs. 
Maneater scorned such adventitious aids to pop- 
ularity. She could neither read nor write, and 
did not agree with making her patrons wise. 
‘“‘Give item in the rough,” said Mrs. Maneater, 
“but give ’em the real thing. There’s no decep- 
tion about Maneater’s; they can see for them- 
selves and explain to one another.” And her 
patrons did so, upon a system that might have 
astonished Buffon. Never once did Mrs. Man- 
eater cast an envious eye upon the throng stream- 
ing into Ringdom and Tanner’s amphitheatre, 
apparently swallowing up so many sight-seers. 
She knew they would come to her sooner or later, 
knew the rural taste for the marvellous to be in- 
satiable, and where, thought the old lady with 
pride, would they look upon an exhibition con- 
taining more marvels than her world-famed me- 
nagerie! The performances in the circus were 
not lengthy at fair time, some twenty minutes or 
thereabouts, when “God save the Queen” play- 
ed the ruddy audience out, to make room for an- 
other crowded circle of approving spectators. 

It was the first night of the fair, a clear fine 
night, when the gala seemed almost robbed of 
its offensiveness by the calm serene sky above, 
moon-lit and starry. Every body was there, even 
the farmers’ voung sons and many visitors from 
Seaborough also, and it was a tempting night to 
walk about and see what was going on. Seen 
from the road leading straight from Old Sea- 
borough it presented a haze of light and twinkle 
of lamps. 
heard, and the hum of the business doing. Get- 
ting nearer, the clash of the instruments, the 
cluttering of drums, and blasts of the trumpets 
came out shrill upon the ear. All around the 
Green the cottagers kept open house and wel- 
comed their friends who had come to see the 
fair. Little children, sent up to bed to get them 
out of the way, stood with their faces pressed to 
the diamond panes of the small windows and 
watched wistfully, as such do, until their toes 
were cramped and they looked through a breath- 
bedewed tracery at the distant cluster of lights. 

“Walter” had not betrayed the emotion she 
experienced upon finding they were bound for 
Sleperton, connected with which were her happi- 
est reflections. If she could but contrive to in- 
form Lorry of her being so near him and again 
in such hated thralldom, she felt sure he would 
do something to help her. But he might not be 
at home, and she was so sharply looked after 
now, truly there seemed insurmountable difficulty 
in the way. And then the time was so short, 
they would be off again directly for quite another 
part of England. She cast yearning glances to- 
ward that grand old house, endeared by the 
knowledge of her parentage, and to that pretty 
cottage home of her loved boy friend. Little she 
imagined, when thinking of that bright and beau- 
teous girl who had broken upon her memory like 
a glimpse of sunshine, that the sister, as she 
loved to think of her, was at that moment in the 
cottage toward which she looked so wistfully. 
Little (and this was more strange than all) did 
she think that in yonder stately dwelling-house 


The braying of trumpets could be] 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


her mother sat with blinds and curtains drawn 
to veil the low display from her fastidious, much- 
disgusted vision. How well she remembered 
her toiling progress along the village street that 
evening when first she came to Sleperton, the 
kind old man who had addressed her while she 
watched the lessening glow of the sunset upon 
the houses, where she had first been told of the 
old place! 

With vindictive satisfaction Messrs. Ringdom 
and Tanner had compelled her to go through all 
the old graceful acts that had so often brought 
down thunders of applause. Whether it was the 
contrast of the pretty child with her steed, or the 
natural beauty she possessed, or the elegance of 
her movements, or that almost defiant and des- 
perate daring, lending esprit to her performance, 
certain it is she had from the first been a great 
favorite. No longer was she disguised in boy’s 
apparel; the proprietors altered that very quick- 
ly. It was in the light and attractive garb of the 
child of the arena; a low muslin dress, crisp 
skirts that fluttered round her, and a scarf float- 
ing to the gentle current while the horse pranced 
the circle. Although so simply adorned, a piece 
of velvet round the throat, and a small cluster of 
flowers upon the bosom, eager eyes followed her, 
so interesting was the picture. At night, between 
the performances, she was required to appear on 
the stage erected in front of the establishment, 
and divided midway to give admission to the 
spectators passing into the circus; upon one side 
this child with other members of the company 
danced ; upon the other, the buffoons, acrobats, 
and that India rubber genius, Boneless Joey of 
Japan, disported themselves in various antics 
vastly attractive to the rustic crowd ontside. 

Mixing with the crowd freely as though one of 
them, after his usual manner, Mr. Garland was 
arrested before the circus by the sight of that 
child dancing for the coarse enjoyment of those 
assembled, and it was such a sad and at the same 
time such a beautiful spectacle that he was ab- 
sorbed by it and lost in thought. Gradually it 
dawned upon him—that resemblance to Lena of 
the dainty face upon the canvas. He had not 
heard all the story known to us, but he was sure 
the child before him was the original of the 
painting, and he made up his mind to see and 
question her. It would be a task of difficulty, 
no doubt, but Westley Garland was wise in his 
generation and resorted to diplomacy. After the 
crowd had scattered, and many from far-off ham- 
lets had set out homeward in companies along 
tlre dark road, enlivening the way with roistering 
song; after the lights in the tented building 
were extinguished—save where grooms with lan- 
terns attended to the provender of the animals; 
after the members of the company were gone to 
their respective lodgings and taverns, and Jimmy 
Ringdom, Esq., with Mrs. Ringdom—greatly fa- 
tigued by the exertion consequent upon money- 
taking at the pigeon-hole pay-box on the stage, 
and the co-proprietor Billy Tanner, Esq., with 
Mrs. Tanner—much wearied and very thirsty 
after energetic trick acts with the highly trained 
steed Pegasus, had resorted to the Lindon Arms ; 
after the flaring oil lamps and torches scattered 
throughout the fair were all darkened, save only 
a glimmer here and there where some of the dusk- 
skinned stowed away the remainder such as gin- 
ger-bread, jewelry, nuts, toys, ornaments, china 


A MODERN MINISTER. | 


and glass, cheap prints, fruit, and other things, 
while a thick haze hovered above the place and 
unwholesome scents struggled with the sweet air; 
then the Minister moved silently among the stalls, 
and threaded his way around the booths, passed 
behind the shows, and skirted the big tent of 
horsemanship, arriving at the point of his desti- 
nation, which was the famous Maneater’s, just as 
the brawny helper was hanging tarpaulin over 
the gilt and glass splendor portaling the en- 
trance. Just within, the formidable but not un- 
kindly looking mistress was counting her re- 
ceipts. The stranger waited until she had finished, 
not to put her out in her calculation, neither did 
she desist because he was there waiting; but 
when all was balanced and tied with string in 
little canvas bags, she said brusquely, without 
looking up, ‘‘ Well, my man, what do you want ?” 
To which the man, with civil respect, replied, 
‘Small coin in exchange for sovereigns or notes ;” 
and the mother of lions and leopards was glad. 
It was one of the difficulties she labored under, 
converting small change into large in rural dis- 
tricts, it being impossible for the one hostelry of 
importance to accommodate all the public enter- 
tainers, and the nearest town often being too far 
off to admit of a purpose journey. Thus the 
mother of lions and leopards was glad, and the 
transaction was conducted to their mutual satis- 
faction. Then the obliging stranger requested 
permission to see a few of the animals on the 
quiet, and Mrs. Maneater, who was pardonably 
proud of the condition of her menagerie, herself 
conducted him down the steps into the inclosed 
well-trodden area, with its barred walls and the 
curious odor inseparable from a collection of wild 
beasts. The mistress held a stable lantern aloft 
with a muscular arm and a clinched fist that 
would have laid any of those crouching, fiercely 
peering ones low at her feet were there any ne- 
cessity; but, as a rule, they gave little trouble, 
she said, and, with exception of that occasion 
when the bold Maneater was partaken of, had 
caused no sorrow. It was a weird scene by that 
one light, showing the Minister the shadowy in- 
mates of the caravans; a ludicrous scene at 
times, as, for instance, when standing before the 
lions she explained, “‘ There used to be a Dan’el, 
but I can’t abide trickery, an’ it made it too like 
the wax-work affair! Tse allus dealt fair with 
the public, and they’s dealt fair with me. I nev- 
er labelled porkepine as armadilley, nor painted 
giraffs and helefants on the outside when the 
show wouldn’t hold ’em; and I never had a bad 
sixpence offered me since travelling—many a 
thin un but never a bad un—and that I calls 
dealing fair wi’ one another.” 

“‘ Most certainly, Mrs. Maneater,” said the Min- 
ister, with cordial approval. Then, ‘ By-the-way, 
what becomes of the female portion of the circus 
people after business ?”” She looked up with quick 
suspicion; such is aroused by a slight remark, 
where, as in this instance, the daily life is a run- 
ning tilt with insult, the nightly experience one 
incessant scene of vice. The Minister immedi- 
ately unbuttoned his coat, and the badge of his 
calling, the square-cut vest and white neck-cloth, 
re-assured the woman. 

“TI feel I can deal honestly with you, Mrs. Man- 
eater, because you are an honest woman. I have 
an interest in a young girl, the youngest there.” 

“So have I. Allus have done,” said the wom- 


151 


an, with refreshing renewed candor. The voice of 
this man talking with her, so sadly tender, his kind 
face so lined with trouble, were inviting to con- 
fidence, and she even added, “ I’ve allus thought 
her out o’ place there, not but what they’re nice 
people enough, but somehow she seems different 
to the usual girls.” The remark was the more 
strange, since it is an uncommon thing for one of 
these travelling exhibitors to volunteer any opin- 
ion upon their neighbors. “I’ve watched her for 
long,” continued Mrs. Maneater, ‘‘and a’most with 
affection, though L say it; an’ when, some weeks 
ago, she ran away from ’em, I felt a kinder glad of 
it, for many’s the time she’s said to me she wished 
she could run away, or else lay down an’ die! 
Now to a young gal,feeling that ways it’s a hard 
life, it is! But P’ve shown her what little kind- 
ness I could, and allus will when it happens we 
are pitched one agen another.” 

‘“‘ And very good of you, ma’am; you will re- 
ceive your reward for every kind word and deed. 
I half suspected it; that’s why I came to you to- 
night.” 

The woman courtesied. She was of rough man- 
ners, but her deference and gratitude for his con- 
fidence were in themselves graceful. “I thanks 
you, Sir, for your good opinion. I’ve allus done 
my duty by all, and never showed a bird ora 
beast till paid for. Mr. Cross, 0’ Liverpool, knows 
us and will tell you we’re honest folk.” 

“Tm sure of it. Where can I see and speak 
with the girl now ?” 

“Here; Tll bring her to you. She trusts me, 
and knows I wouldn’t lead her wrong.” 

‘Poor child, to need such caution!’ The wom- 
an shrugged her shoulders and went up the steps 
with heavy tread, leaving the lantern on the top- 
most, its dim light making the place look ghast- 
ly. The growling of the animals and measured 
pacing of those disturbed lent additional gloom ; 
low down between the bars fierce eyes glared 
upon the intruder; without were the signs of un- 
rest indicative of a camp of wanderers. The 
friendly woman returned shortly in company with 
the girl. Mr. Garland took the little hand so 
kindly, and asked her, 

“T think you are the young lady my friend 
Lord Ellerby entertained in company with an- 
other ?” 

“Yes, Sir,” trembling with joy; ‘I was search- 
ing for her when I was seen and brought back to 
the circus from which I had escaped.” 

“T supposed so. Very well; now you want me 
to help you ?” 

In reply the child asked, ‘‘Do you know to 
whom the Manor-house here belonged ?” 

“To Lord Lindon.” 

“Yes; I am his daughter,” she said, quietly, 
and with dignity. ‘Such is my birth, it is quite 
true; and fatherless, motherless, I have been, and 
am, the common drudge of a common circus.” 

“This igs very sad. Thank God, it is in my 
power to alter it! Fear not, your troubles are well- 
nigh over; keep your own counsel, and hope ona 
little longer. I know well how you have suffered ; 
take comfort in my assurance that your suffering 
is almost at an end. I must see these people you 
are with. I doubt not there will be some diffi- 
culty in persuading or compelling them to cancel 
the agreement binding you to them; but do not 
fear, it shall be done, and you will be restored to 
your mother.” 


152 


“To my mother!” repeated the child, with rapt 
and awe-struck interest and eagerness. 

“To your mother; but have patience. I am 
obliged to take a journey to the north to-morrow 
to keep an important engagement made with one 
of whom you will know more; but I shall not lose 
sight of your interests, and speedily return.” 

She fell upon her knees before him, and, clasp- 
ing his hand, kissed it repeatedly, while the grate- 
ful tears fell quickly. 


——————— 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 
QUALIFYING FOR THE BAR, 


BetwEen Trinity and Michaelmas terms, Will- 
iam Arden had certainly enjoyed an easy time of 
it, in a pleasant saunter here and there, and yacht- 
ing off the coast, during which delightful occupa- 
tion befell that romantic adventure which gained 
him access to the Boarded House; and from that 
time he experienced a change in his lazy quest of 
pleasure, and more profitable seasons of study, 
to which he returned bearing with him an ex- 
ceedingly tender recollection of one dainty little 
face, which somehow he always thought of in con- 
nection with fallen fruit upon the grass. The 
twenty-four November days of the term were de- 
voted to assidious study ; there seemed something 
more in the world than there had been, and Willie 
bestowed, perhaps, more serious thought than ever 

before upon the future. He was well provided 
for, had a hopeful prospect before him, was natu- 
rally of a very affectionate disposition, held tena- 
ciously to strong principles of honor, possessed 
innate refinement, and felt highly elated, as he 
said to himself one morning, while flourishing a 
razor before his glass with much self-complacency 
at the comeliness of his visage, “‘and I think I shall 
make a girl as good a husband as most fellows.” 
While exposing this pardonable piece of self-com- 
placency, and corroborating the opinion thus ar- 
rived at, we must acknowledge also that against 
these were points not so prepossessing, and: of 
which young ladies think much. Thus Mr. Arden 
was in no sense a brilliant person; but as the es- 
sentially brilliant persons are seldom very amia- 
ble, and are almost always eaten up by vanity, this 
may not count to his prejudice. Next he was not 
a wit—another drawback. Ladies are choice as to 
the water of their diamonds, worn with so great 
a measure of pride; but if not a wit, he was ex- 
ceedingly thoughtful, which with some few rare 
spirits more than atones for the absence of the 
distinguished trait. The term closed, and Willie 
visited relatives in town, returning home in De- 
cember, when Yorkshire, to say the least of it, 
presents a forcible contrast to London. There 

_were five good weeks before the commencement 

of Hilary, and all Willie could think of was liv- 
ing those five weeks through with the hope of see- 
ing his fair querist, whose thirst for knowledge, or 
rather enlightenment, had so posed this gentleman 
qualifying for the bar, 

Naturally his first question, upon sitting quietly 
down to talk the news over, was of his father’s 
friend and daughter. He was concerned to see 
the old pastor look troubled at the inquiry, and 
guessed instantly that something was amiss ; and 
Mr. Arden told his son of Lena’s going away—to 
Willie’s intense disgust and annoyance—and of 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


Mr. St. Aubyn’s poignant distress of mind in con- 
sequence; also of the girl’s return, of St. Aubyn’s 
refusal to receive her, and of her going away with 
a Mrs. Vincent, who had been staying at the House. 
And Master Willie was surprised, as well he might 
be, and condemned St. Aubyn’s harshness, as he 
called it, in no measured terms. 

“ This will be a sudden change for Lena. Ihope 
the lady she is with will prove a really kind friend.” 

“St. Aubyn speaks highly of her.” 

“He spoke highly of the other woman, yet 
would have been better without her valuable sery- 
ices.” 

“T never liked her.’” 

“Nor I; she led me a pretty chase, or would 
have done. Where does this Mrs. Vincent live ?” 

“ At Sleperton, near Seaborough.” 

“You have a picture of the Manor. I havea 
very good mind to take a trip to Sleperton and 
try to see her; she may be unhappy, possibly feel 
glad to seeme.” The old pastor secretly favored 
the scheme, thinking it might in some circuitous 
manner bring about a reconciliation; but aware 
of St. Aubyn’s dislike to intrusion of any sort in 
his private affairs, he forbore to countenance it 
by assent or advice. 

Willie Arden walked down to the village, to a 
gray stone cottage, where his face was welcome 
as the sunshine, where an honest fisherman and 
his good wife, provided for and admitted to the 
close friendship of this grateful scholar, were 
longing for the coming of their generous helper. 
The children saw him first, coming down the vil- 
lage street, and ran in to mother with glad speed 
with the tidings that Mr. Willie was in sight. 
And he entered with his cheeriest word, and the 
laughter never altogether absent in his gravest 
moods, enlivening them instantly, as such a vis- 
itor will, shaking hands warmly, and sitting down 
with that happy freedom which was one of the 
qualities endearing him to them and others. 

“Well, old friend, how fares it with you?” 

“Comfortably, Mr. William, thanks to you, Sir. 
Without your help we’d found it hard, I reckon, 
getting through the winter.” 

‘“We were both of us near to seeing no winter 
at all, Brown; but I hope you have looked to the 
new yacht ?” 

“‘She’s in good trim, Mr. William, and will be 
ready for your summer cruise, Sir.” 

“A handsomer craft than the last; but I liked 
the old one best, Brown.” 

“So did I, Sir; never shall get used to this one 
so pleasantly.” 

““We shallsee. I’ve set my mind ttpon a Med- 
iterranean trip this summer, and you shall ac- 
company me.” 

“T thank ye, Sir,” and the old fisherman, touch- 
ed his forehead respectfully, while his face bright- 
ened with the anticipation. He loved the water, 
had been on it from boyhood; even the sharp les- 
son of its fury failed to decrease that fondness 
for its shifting humors. When it had come so 
near to losing life thereby, no bitterness was in 
the faithful heart, but a readiness to accept from 
the elements he had served all his life rough 
treatment and, if need be, a cruel death ; and when 
one came without the other, Brown bore no ill- 
will—as these constant fellows on the coast sel- 
dom do—but was first to the great heaving bil- 
lows with the net to help poor comrades, who were 
not provided for like himself. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


From there Willie Arden walked on to another 
of his father’s people—who loved both father and 
son with the strong affection of these northern 
natures—to the fisher-folk, and the tillers of the 
soil, and the workers upon the old brown coal 
called jet. And these constituted the larger por- 
tion of the little flock. Often in boyhood had 
Willie stood watching the rapidly revolving buf- 
fers polishing the pieces from which the scar on 
the surface had been first removed, level cut 
pieces, polished by lamp-black upon those soft 
leather buffers, watching the process with the in- 
terest of boyhood, which stands absorbed before 
every thing significant of activity, from the black- 
smith’s forge to the shuttle. He went among 
these humble affectionate folk, as was his cus- 
tom when at home, and then, having made the 
round, giving a look in at most, he returned to 
dinner, with this piece of intimation tendered with 
dutiful respect. “If you don’t mind, father, I 
purpose, as I said, running down to Sleperton. 
It’s a long way, but I shall enjoy the ride.” 

“As you please, my boy. Iam sure you will 
act for the best.” 

With what a happy smile he inclined his head ! 
Perfect confidence, love, honor, and respect ren- 
dered the mutual love of these two a type of the 
beautiful sentiment it should be. 

And next day Willie Arden journeyed to Sleper- 
ton, with which locality he would have been 
* lightly impressed, had it not been for the fact of 
the annual fair, just at that time being celebrated, 
having presented a scene of excitement and busi- 
ness which pleased him as fully as it would have 
done a great boy home from school. As, how- 
ever, there was attraction greater even than the 
fair in close proximity to that pretty Green, he 
could only make for the Cottage; and he stood 
before it, upon the edge of the grass with the 
roadway between, and behind him the straggling 
_booths, with the great tent of a circus in the 
centre. He stood looking at the picturesque 
dwelling, just such a bower as he would have 


liked to spend the greater part of his days in with” 


—with—her. 

Then, glancing at the window, where she usual- 
ly sat, he saw her, lovely as ever, a degree more 
thoughtful-looking, but none the worse for that. 
She did not at first see him; he stood there, how- 
ever, until she did, and when in time her glance 
fell upon the hero of that early dream, she could 
scarcely believe hereyes. The next moment, with 
a little joyful cry, she arose hurriedly, ran past 
the surprised Martha Saxe, down stairs almost at 
a bound, brushing the dress of the elegant widow 
coming forth to ascertain the cause of the com- 
motion, out through the porch and along the gar- 
den path, across the road, and, regardless of the 
look of it, threw her arms about the friend from 
home; then, mindful all at once of her good reso- 
lutions, stood blushing and embarrassed, yet con- 
triving to stammer forth, ‘I am so glad to see 
vou; you’ve come for me, I know!” Willie, who 
had been taken by storm, and who thought that 
at all events his sweetheart had not mended her 
manners, was troubled to know what to answer, 
and said, “ Yes, ’ve come for you; are you ready 
to go back ?” 

To which the wild one, in an ecstasy of delight, 
replied, “I should think Iam. Just wait till I’ve 
got my hat; never mind the other things; and if 
Martha won’t come, she may stop !” 


153 


“Not at all,” said prudent Willie, gentleman 
ever. “If Martha does not come, I can’t take you ; 
but how about your friend Mrs. Vincent ?” 

“Well, I shall not take any notice of her. She’s 
fond of serving me like that; now it will be my 
turn.” 

All was so sudden, Mr. Arden was quite unpre- 
pared. Her eagerness was more than he had bar- 
gained for, if not more than he had hoped; but 
even thus overtaken his natural delicacy led him 
to express his wish for the attendance of her maid. 

Lena on her part, all excitement and impulse, 
overjoyed by the sight of this friend, whom she 
felt she could trust implicitly, never thought of 
that powerful mediator, the Minister, even then 
absent in her interests, and who, with his calm in- 
fluence, might do so much more for her than could 
this younger man, already regarded with suspicion. 

Hurrying back again, Lena was confronted by 
the amazed and indignant mistress of the house, 
with “So, young lady, this will be pretty conduct 
to be communicated to your guardian !” 

Without deigning to answer her, Lena hasten- 
ed to her chamber and locked the door, scaring 
her faithful attendant by instructions to put. to- 
gether such few necessary things as would be re- 
quired, for they were going home with Willie Ar- 
den, who had come expressly. Mrs. Saxe knew 
her too well to remonstrate, and obeyed with the 
silent service characteristic of the woman. 

When her preparations were completed, the 
strong-minded young lady marched down stairs 
followed by her servant, the astounded widow 
falling back a pace at the foot, while demanding 
an explanation. Lena ignored the lady and her 
request together, walking on with. determination, 
and joining Mr. Arden, they went their way with- 
out more ado, Mrs. Saxe with a civil obeisance to 
the widow. 

Past the old Manor-house, where the blinds of 
all front windows were drawn close; past the cen- 
tral tent of the fair, the applause of the spectators 
echoing as they walked on, to the graceful per- 
formance of a lovely girl who had never shown 
such zest and spirit, never looked half so beau- 
tiful. 

With a slightly heightened color Mrs, Vincent 
penned these few lines to St. Aubyn: 


“In spite of all my care, Lena eloped with some 
fast-looking young man this afternoon at 5.30. 
You will remember my opinion from the portrait, 
uttered with regret but in sincerity ; to-day’s event 
confirms my prophecy.” 


Then she murmured, “ Well, I do think this 
ought to settle it.” 


a 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 
AN EMBARRASSING MISSION. 


A pouBLE errand took Mr. Garland to the north. 
His time was very valuable, he had little to spare, 
still he earnestly desired to see what could be done 
for two persons in whom he experienced profound 
interest in two very different quarters. Miss St. 
Aubyn and Sir Dickson Cheffinger were thus again, 
indirectly, in juxtaposition. And first he would 
go to Yorkshire, to the House upon the Cliff, there 
seek audience of the recluse, and plead for the 


154 A MODERN MINISTER. 


lonely child he was befriending. While contem- 
plating this, he little imagined the surprise in 
store for him. . 

The Minister stood before the great gate await- 
ing admission ; he had sent in his card by Williams 
notwithstanding the man’s repeated assurance 
that his master would not see any visitors. And 
the man had gone on his mission dubiously, with 
the message that a clergyman wished for a few 
minutes’ audience. He returned with the master’s 
compliments and a peremptory refusal to see the 
gentleman. Then Mr. Garland adopted this meth- 
od—he sent word that he had recently had an in- 
terview with Miss St. Aubyn. Mr. St. Aubyn knew 
that already, and hated him like poison for it; 
the widow’s letters had certainly caused the re- 
cluse to detest this particular man rather more 
than his race generally. He returned this answer: 
“The Rev. Mr. Garland may remain at the gate 
till a cathedral is built over him before he shall 
enter here!’ The Rev. Mr. Garland, with a gen- 
tle smile that won the heart of Williams entirely, 
returned answer courteously and firmly that his 
errand would not permit of his going until he had 
seen Mr. St. Aubyn, and he would patiently await 
his convenience. This struck the master as a 
mild sort of reply to his surly message, and he 
bade Williams return to the kitchen and not trou- 
ble any more about it. Westley Garland had been 
born too near a wood to be terrified by the hoot- 
ing of owls, and sat him down on the rock, by the 
gate, very much admiring the little ferns growing 
thereabout, and the fair scene outspread beyond, 
and not in the least disturbed. In his pocket he 
had a gem edition of the Archbishop of Cambray’s 
Telemachus, and he was deep in the old delight 
when he heard a step on the pavement of the 
court. The master, unable to quiet a feeling of un- 
easiness, had come to peep at the Minister, who 
was the latest person of note in that world from 
whence he had fled. But when he recognized in 
the man reclining at ease and reading the friend 
of long ago, his wonder was extreme. Unbarring 
the gate instantly, he hastened out to him, and 
the surprise of the one as they greeted each oth- 
er was not deeper upon discovering in the famous 
preacher the friend he so much esteemed as Lio- 
nel Travers, than was that of the other in finding 
that the recluse was Lord Lindon, whose history 
had of late occupied so much of the Minister’s 
thoughts. They went in-doors, and in the quiet 
privacy of St. Aubyn’s choice retreat favored each 
other with explanations. There was much to hear, 
much to be told, and the gentlemen were talking 
a long time, so long that the daylight faded, and 
the room grew dusk, before the Minister approach- 
ed the special theme of his visit; at last he said, 
“Now I must refer to your own recent and more 
delicate affairs. I was with your Lena yesterday !” 
and the other became gloomy instantly. 

“T would so much rather not hear any thing 
upon that painful subject. I am curing myself, I 
hope, of my weakness, but shall never do so while 
dwelling on the memory; the wound is very ten- 
der yet, I assure you.” 

“Tknow it; but before leaving you I hope to do 
something toward healing that wound.” 

“‘ T have heard,” said the other, with a courteous 
smile, “you are the chevalier of distressed hu- 
manity.” 

“Depend upon it, my lord, I find very many 
wounded in the world in one way or another.” 


“But do you not think some wounds heal 
quicker for being left alone?” 

2 i Undoubtedly ; this is one of them; after to- 
ay. 

‘Before I hear any thing you have to say, and 
which I would listen to from no other person in 
the world—pardon me if I speak first—you will 
then judge better of the advisability of entering 
further into the discussion.” 

‘* By all means.” 

“You are aware of the wretched termination 
to my married life, aware of my purpose when 
first taking and training this pretty piece of 
treachery, aware of the awful blow it was to me, 
when I returned here, to find—to find—no matter. 
Now, my friend, would you deem it charity to re- 
vive a man’s liking for the snake that had stung 
him and would sting him again upon the earliest 
opportunity? It would be more merciful to leave 
his affections to grow cool as philosophy and 
calm as science, when dispassionately, from a 
safe distance, the manners and instincts of rep- 
tiles may be studied without injury. Ineed hardly 


say so, but much I wonder whether, if I paid a fly-. 


ing visit to the world, I should find one woman 
quietly at home with her needle-work, faithful to 
her husband, living for her children, mindful of 
her God ?” 

Mr. Garland, ever the champion of the sex cen- 
sured, would, at any other time, have expressed 
himself warmly in its defense, but his solicitude 
dwelt upon particular members thereof too deeply 
to endanger their cause by losing time over argu- 
ment. ‘We will leave that. I plead now for 
one whose sin has been very great, yet whose 
pitiful yearning for forgiveness and union with 
her children has moved me to intrude upon you.” 

The manner, gentle, considerate, full of feeling, 


even more than the words, prepared the suffering 


nobleman for confirmation of a horrible suspicion 
gradually dawning upon him. And he could al- 
most catch from the other’s trembling utterance 
how the disclosure pained him who had thus ac- 
cepted the unpleasant office of revealing the sin- 
gularly sad connection. 

‘“‘My plainness will be very painful to you,” 
continued the mediator, “but it is not more cruel 
than prolonging an announcement which wounds 
while it may heal. Some of the ties in life are 
so underlaid with solemn design, we poor human 
beings can only stand by, wondering and ques- 
tioning; the powers of good and the powers of 
evil are so inextricably interwoven. The Lena 
you have loved and have discarded is the child 
of Lady Lindon.” 

Lord Lindon arose from his chair; it was very 
dark, and the anguish upon the face could not 
be seen by the other, but he guessed it, and was 
moved to intense sympathy. It had been an em- 
barrassing revelation, but Mr. Garland felt it 
would be false pity to prolong it. For a few 
minutes the agony of it caused bewilderment, 
then, gradually, all asserted its order, and the in- 
cidents of the past and of the present came out 
wonderfully vivid. ‘ 

‘“‘ And I have been harboring the child of that 
infamy and trouble! Nay, but it increases the 
horror of this time!” : 

“Only for a season; be brave, look it in the 
face; think how the child has loved you, and still 
loves you!” 


‘While my own girl has been the devil knows” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


where! I thank you, Sir, but if this is how 
things are going on in the world of which you 


entertain such hope, I don’t admire their order.. 


It strikes me no one could have wished myself a 
more diabolic sequence.” 

“You will pass through this gloomy stage and 
come forth calm, prepared to meet and to forgive 
your wife. She but-asks for this. You will not 
deny her one meeting for the purpose of making 
the remainder of her life more happy !” 

“Tt would be an interview of exceeding pain 
to both, and, as I think, a useless ordeal. It is 
almost too much to expect of one who has suf- 
fered as I have done.” 

““T am conscious of the magnanimity required, 
the courage, ay, and of the Christian spirit; but 
I have hope of you, knowing the fine nature to 
which I plead.” 

“Which would lead you to presume. Have 
some regard for that fineness of feeling you ac- 
credit me with. An interview with Lady Lindon 
is simply impossible, unless some great revolu- 
tion of feeling gives me more strength and calm- 
ness than I now possess.” 

““T have no fear; the noble bravery inherited 
of a noble line both chivalrous and good will 
come to your aid. Could I tell you how that 
lonely lady, aloof in her inexorable pride from 
all human sympathy and fellowship, from all Di- 
vine consolation, how she lives upon the hardly 
defined, the scarcely expected, hope of this, it 
would move you to, at least, assure her you for- 
give the past—” 

“But I don’t, my good Sir!” interrupted his 
lordship, irately, for this perseverance taxed him 
almost beyond endurance. The other knew it, 
but thought more of those for whom he was 
pleading, and he said, with great emotion, “I 
plead for no common penitence, and for a heart 
so difficult to deal with it would break with long- 
ing for this before ever it advanced a step to seek 
it. Lady Lindon—forgive me—presented to my 
first view every objectionable feature ever pos- 
sessed by woman; but I have learned to know 
her better.” 

“Yes,” replied his lordship, with saturnine, 
moody bitterness, “your position is a tolerably 
safe one; but I wonder the view you would take 
in my place. An old writer said, Man could 
swallow any thing, give him the time; but if I 
digest the morsel you have been good enough to 
bring, I must be either more than human, or aid- 
ed by a Higher power.” 

“Such will be forth-coming when you are pre- 
pared to receive it. Meanwhile I entreat you 
will first, as of supreme importance, deliberate 
upon a meeting with Lady Lindon.” 


i 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
CHEFFINGER UV, CHEFFINGER. 


Sir CLauDE Marston Cuerrixcer’s tenure of 
CuEFFINGER, although of lengthened period and 
of apparent security, was, after all, one of hazard 
and uncertainty so long as that half-witted cousin 
in the distance was at large. Poor Cousin Dick- 
son would never do any thing of himself, for he 
was wretchedly low in the social status, and Sir 
Claude took care to keep him so; yet there was 
“no telling but that absurd crotchet of Dickson’s, 


155 


in regard to titled folk and folk without title, to 
whom he granted dignities as required, might 
lead to this awkward and uncertain cousin some 
day finding a friend who would make Dickson’s 
representation a matter of close investigation ; 
and Sir Claude knew well his claim to the Ab- 
bey, once opened to question, could not be sus- 
tained as far as he was concerned. It was a 
grisly piece of realism that, shirk it how he 
might, stared him in the face, and gave him but 
little rest. He might be steered clear of, for the 
remaining years of his life, now that so many 
had passed on undisturbed; but it was equally 
as possible at any time somebody might run 
down to Cheffinger upon unpleasant business. 
Sir Claude endeavored to ignore the ugly proba- 
bility, filled his house with a merry company 
from year’s end to year’s end, favored sport, pa- 
tronized art, simulated science, affected litera- 
ture, was much liked, counted an open-hearted 
English gentleman, and was so; cheaply! 

Great were the festivities at the Abbey; not 
now and then, but all the year round. In doors 
and out a continuous round of pastime and pleas- 
ure; but it did not relieve its owner of the dark 
shadow looming over every scheme for the en- 
joyment of life. Sir Claude disliked being alone, 
and as a matter of fact was seldom alone. He 
indulged his passion for the chase to the utmost, 
and found it a tolerably fair antidote to gloom. 
Varied was the sport, when from August a large 
party of his town and country friends assembled 
at CHEFFINGER, and either in the neighborhood 
or at a distance gave themselves up to the de- 
lights of the autumn: blackcock, grouse, bustard, 
moor game, black game, partridge, and quail; 
then off and on for a month, buck and red deer. 
In October they commenced pheasant-shooting, 
the great preserves on distant confines of the es- 
tate resounded with the firing of the sportsmen. 
Hind and fox hunting varied the sport, while 
some sniggled for eels. With November the 
pursuit changed for woodcocks, and as the year 
drew toward its close the shooting of these be- 
came more exciting. In December, the Abbey 
revived the old customs and good cheer that once 
gave this land the style of Merry England. Sir 
Claude’s argument was an eminently politic one. 
Said he, “In case I ever have to give it up, I will 
enjoy it now I’ve got it.” He did so, as much 
as a man could with the sword of Damocles sus- 
pended above him. Really, however, these swords 
are plentiful as Sheffield blades, and the men and 
women above whom they are hanging contrive, 
notwithstanding, to jog on pretty comfortably. 
Sir Claude did so at all events, until one morn- 
ing a strange conveyance startled the deer, and 
sent them herding beneath the trees at a far-off 
corner of the park, where there was no road, and 
silence reigned magnificent as in the Highlands. 
Sir Claude always had one eye on the alert for 
any unknown and peculiar-looking personage. 
The individual thus arriving without invitation 
was not a pleasant-looking gentleman, and the 
proprietor of Cheffinger Abbey experienced that 
cold thrill which people of his warmly hospitable 
temperament particularly dislike. The stranger’s 
card was handed to Sir Claude—it bore the name 
of Coke O’ Connor—and Sir Claude gave orders 
that the gentleman should be shown to the libra- 
ry. The name afforded no indication of his busi- 
ness. Sir Glaude had an unpleasant twitter of 


156 


the eyes when uneasy, and in walking to the li- 
brary his eyes twittered like those of a dormouse 
when it wakes, after a long sleep, to find itself 
under the guardianship of a cat. 

Mr. O’Connor’s appearance did not tend to re- 
assure the owner of the Abbey, who bowed dis- 
tantly, his eyes still twittering before the dagger- 
like point of the dark man’s imperial. 

“J have the honor,” said the dark man, “to 
speak to Sir Claude Marston Cheffinger ?” 

“The same, Sir.” 

“J have run down from town to see you upon a 
little matter of business connected with the estate ; 
you will permit me to introduce myself as a mem- 
ber of the firm of Barnard and O’ Connor, Cursitor 
Street. My respected partner is so much engaged 
or he would have waited upon you himself.” 

‘“‘ Will you take a chair, Sir?” said the owner 
of CHEFFINGER, with affability. 

The gentleman from Cursitor Street took a 
chair, and sat thereon with profound legislative 
impudence, drawing his closed hand carefully 
down his imperial as if feeling for the com- 
mencement of his brief. 

“Our firm has lately had the disputed Oner- 
FINGER question before it. A person known as 
Dickson Cheffinger, claiming to be the rightful 
heir, and ascertained to be in some remote rela- 
tion connected with yourself, is about to lay his 
petition before her Majesty.” 

“Who, of course, is well aware, Sir, that in ev- 
ery body corporate of her subjects there are two- 
thirds impostors.” 

“Of course,” assented the other, dryly; “ but 
there is the scandal all the same, only to be avoid- 
ed by good management.” 

Sir Claude fidgeted restively, and then said, 

“Pardon me, can I offer you a glass of wine ?” 

“No, I thank you; during professional hours I 
never take it.” 

“Ah, just so; er—I was going to say I fancy 
Ive heard of this fellow Dickson Cheffinger— 
not sure it’s the same, but doesn’t he labor under 
some curious hallucination, fancying himself and 
others all sorts of things? He’s a lunatic, or some- 
thing in that way; at all events, not quite bright. 
I’m not sure, but it strikes me I’ve heard my peo- 
ple talk of some such being.” 

“Tt is evidently the same, Sir Claude; he’s very 
curious. Mr. Barnard observed to me in confi- 
dence that it was a pity such people should be 
permitted to go about, disturbing old county fam- 
ilies, and making a would-be hash of all Con- 
servative interests. There ought to be some re- 
straining influence upon such people.” 

“And so there ought, Sir; what are the mad- 
houses for, I should like to know? Good con- 
science, but society is coming to a pretty pass if 
land-owners are to be bearded by every demented 
pauper with the requisite audacity! I won’t en- 
courage it, Sir; I never will encourage it. My 
friends are all men of large landed importance, 
and in their interests—in their interests, Sir—I 
discountenance all such violations of hereditary 
privilege; and to mark my sincerity, as a first 
step in a crusade against fraud, I am content to 
place in the hands of any respectable firm of so- 
licitors five hundred pounds toward suppressing 
this vagabond, and I will pay to the said firm as 
many thousands to encourage and support the 
ancient prerogative of justice—when this latest 

barefaced impostor is placed in some mad-house, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


where he can indulge his fancy at his leisure 
without injury to his fellow-creatures who are 
sane. It shows a shocking state of things in an 
enlightened country like this, Mr. O’Connor !” 

“Qh, very, very! My friend Mr, Barnard was 
only saying yesterday, it really seems as though 
things were growing worse and worse! Reflect- 
ive observers view such mendacious impostors 
with painful apprehension, Sir Claude. Iam sure 
I am justified in the name of the firm I represent 
in accepting your proposed noble contribution to- 
ward the preservation of honor and the support 
of the institutions of the High Court of Justice.” 

““Well, you have heard my proposition and can 
act as you think advisable. Of course to a certain 
extent I am actuated by interested motives, be- 
cause any family disputes are attended with seri- 
ous inconvenience, property is impoverished, and 
seldom any satisfactory end gained. I mention 
this because, while wishing to benefit others situ- 
ated in a similar position, I have a decided reluc- 
tance to become the peg upon which an old worn- 
out suit of litigation is to be hung.” 

“YT apprehend your meaning, Sir Claude, and 
beg to assure you the transaction shall be con- 
ducted with strict privacy.” 

““Yes—thank you. And as a guarantee of my 
good faith and the interest I take in the matter, 
permit me to hand you the little preliminary ad- 
vance mentioned.” . 

This settled it; and the Cental Street gentle- 
man withdrew in a business-like and perfectly re-., 
spectful manner, Sir Claude Marston Cheffinger, 
of CHEFFINGER, rejoined his guests, breathing more 
freely than he had done for a long time past. 
He perfectly understood the type of legal gentle- 
man that had waited upon him; and Sir Claude 
was quite of opinion that, next to an unprincipled 
doctor, an unprincipled lawyer is the most dan- 
gerous being on earth, although he may be made a 
valuable auxiliary in the carrying out of villainy. 
Altogether, Sir Claude considered it an advan- 
tageous move in his tactics of possession, and thus 
thought, until one day another visitor appeared in 
the person of a clergyman, a man of exquisite 
address, whom it was impossible to be offended 
with, coming, moreover, with an introduction from 
one of Sir Claude’s especial favorites, Frank, Lord 
Ellerby. 

The clergyman, well known in the litetary 
world, whose name was held in esteem by all 
classes, explained that he was travelling that 
way, much wishing to see the old paintings of 
which his friend, Lord Ellerby, had spoken with 
rapturous enthusiasm, loving, moreover, all these 
ancient dwelling-places, and so ventured to take 
advantage of the introduction and trespass upon 
Sir Claude’s kindness. Sir Claude, who, as he 
said, had always room for another, and thought 
‘“‘the more the merrier,” extended the hospitality 
for which he was noted with a bluff grace which 
put the Minister instantly at ease, although it 
pricked his conscience, seeing that he was there 
more particularly in his friend Dickson’s inter- 
ests; but thinking the end justified the means, 
the Minister made careful and appreciative scru- 
tiny of Cheffinger Abbey. Sir Claude, with jovi- 
al bonhomie, said, ‘I give my guests the run of 
the place, Mr. Garland; pray make yourself at 
home as much as the rest.” The Minister ac- 
cepted the run, but it was a slightly different run 
to that usual with the Abbey guests. Securing 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the company of an old servant his discriminating 
insight had discovered among the retainers, he 
attached the garrulous old man to his expedition 
in apparent quest of out-of-the-way old paintings, 
carving, antique metal-work, rare binding, tomes 
deep in dust, quaint chests full of parchments 
and deeds whereon writing was well-nigh illegi- 
ble, and other treasures dear to the antiquary ; 
and his companion and guide was in his element 
also, since he could gossip discursively until he 
was tired. It was a novel pleasure to the old 
man; they would not listen to his idle chatter 
down below, but left him to himself while they 
talked sport and slang, stable and kitchen clas- 
sics. And all the time Sir Claude was with the 
guests, enjoying the chase with renewed ardor, 
the clergyman and his guide were deep in the 
Abbey heir-looms, and sat down to rest a while 
on a great worm-eaten chest. The process of rest- 
ing did not stem the flow of information ; this 
old man was full to the soul of olden records and 
events of interest connected with the home life 
of the Cheffingers for generations past. It was 
naturally with the last owner he was most inti- 
mately acquainted, and of that singular old man 
he had much to gay. He told of distant coldness 
in his treatment of this Claude Cheffinger, whom 
he seemed to regard with morbid suspicion, and 
upon one occasion openly declared his will was 
made in favor of a poor relative, Claude’s senior, 
and who would become his hei, if only for never 
troubling him once in his life. Here the Minis- 
ter listened eagerly, and asked the name of this 
unoffending member of the family. 

“His name was Dickson Cheffinger, ” replied 
the old man, “and I know the will was made in 
his favor, for I was one of the witnesses.” 

“And this Dickson Cheffinger, then, is the 
rightful heir to the estates?” 

“Hush!” said the old man, cautiously; “if Sir 
Claude knew I prattled of this he would discharge 
me, and I wouldn’t like to leave the Abbey now. 
Yes, had that will been forth-coming, Sir Dick- 
son’s claim would have been established, but it 
wasn’t, and Sir Claude entered upon possession, 
by the dying wish, it w of my old master. 
Sir Dickson, as I understo pent all his means 
at that time upon asserting his rights, but his 
means were small and went but little way, and 
Sir Claude remained the undisturbed possessor. 
I did hear that it preyed upon the other’s mind 
sadly, and it is an unjust thing, for the Lord be 
with the right, say I!” 

“He always is, my friend; but He knows it is 
good for the worthy to be a while in obscurity, 
and thus worth comes to perfection.” 

“Then there’s a lot o’ folk on the road to be- 
ing perfect, I take it.” The Minister smiled at 
his dry way of putting it. 

“And about the will; you believe Claude Chef- 
finger destroyed it ?” 

‘No, I don’t,” answered the old man, quickly, 
“for he could never find it; he was suspected, 
and it was put away for a better than he to find. 
You’d never believe how cunning and suspicious, 
and hateful of having him with him the master 
became toward the end.” Mr. Garland had not 
personally seen any thing to dislike in Claude 
Cheffinger, who received him with every courtesy, 
but he knew that the presentient prejudice of the 
aged when nearing mortality is without the pale 
of our every-day reasoning and favor. 


4 


157 


“And have you never made search for this 
yourself, in the interests of that right you ap- 
prove ?” 

“IT have done so, but it’s a difficult thing to do 
alone, and Sir Claude is quick. He would guess 
Pda motive if he heard of it, because I know the 
contents and witnessed it. I'shouldn’t have been 
here now if you hadn’t picked me out, so that no- 
body could say any thing. I’ve rather avoided 
coming up here, because from my knowledge of 
the old master he would very likely hide it some- 
where hereabout; and I don’t want Sir Claude to 
turn me off now.” 

“Well, let us make systematic and minute 
search wherever you fancy it is most likely to be 
hidden, and if found, I will guarantee you shall 
not leave the Abbey, and shall, moreover, be lib- 
erally provided for during the remainder of your 
life. Iam the sole friend of Sir Dickson Chef- 
finger, and I am here in his interests and for this 
very purpose.” 

The old man paused a rionieht passed his 
hand across his brow, and seemed to be lost in 
thought; then, without speaking a word, joined 
the other at his close examination of the Abbey 
lumber. Every thing was contained in the old 
garrets, from chipped paintings to broken cabi- 
net-work, from Venetian glass to Parisian armes 
de luxe. Mr. Garland took up one of the latter 
curiously and with some admiration; the stock 
was carved in low relief, the foot being orna- 
mented in silver with Diana preparing for the 
chase, the barrel with oak foliage, the sides with 
an animal hunt, in which a frightened wolf upon 
a tree stump formed the hammer. Claude Chef- 
finger thought a smooth, perfect English fowling- 
piece superior to the most artistically executed 
fusils of Paris or St. Etienne, and consigned beau- 
tiful pieces by such celebrated gun-makers as the 
famous La Roche, Langevin, Le Hollandais, and 
Bouillet to oblivion in an oak chest, with small 
respect for sport of the old school or the tradi- 
tions of his ancestors. 

A line of long, low, quaintly constructed win- 
dows, designed to make the exterior picturesque, 
admitted light to the very extremities of the gar- 
ret, where the sloping, shelving roof. inclined to 
the flooring, and yielded covert to the rats and 
mice, a wonderful race in the garrets of CHEFFIN- 
GER; fat, sleek, and indolent, and not in the least 
disposed to show respect to the Minister; but he 
would not have harmed even a rat, until it was 
clear to him the same was a usurper. This 
domain afforded the tribe the exercise felled 
woodlands offer the rabbits, for here had been 
thrown old rolls of paper-hanging, as, from time 
to time, proprietor by proprietor, the Abbey walls 
had been decorated accor ding to the taste of the 
period; very gorgeous were some of these, as, 
partly unrolled, they were outspread and laid in 
confusion, Eastern flowers upon Italian scrolls, 
and pilasters and panels of tarnished gilt on the 
delicate chintz- patterned, diapered, and silken- 
surfaced papers of France. 

“He was very deep, you know,” whispered the 
old man, hands and knees on the floor, pulling 
the dusty rolls away, and keenly scrutinizing the 
roof and floor where they met at anangle. “He’d 
put it where a sharp body like Sir Claude, even, 
would not think of looking for it; that’s why I 
leave the chest and other things to look round 
the flooring.” He was knocking with his knuckles 


158 


while whispering this on the inclined ceiling, and 
the Minister, stooping, watched operations with 
keen interest. The whitewash sounded evenly 
solid, and left no suspicion of the smallest hollow 
existing; the boards of the flooring had evident- 


ly not been disturbed since there laid down. The | 


old man crawled backward, and slowly resumed 
a Standing position, complaining he did not feel 
so young and active as of yore. And then his 
face shone, a bright idea having returned to him. 
“T’ve often thought there’s room under the eaves 
for hiding any thing, and not many would think 
of looking there.” 

“Yes; but, my good friend, would not your old 
master equally much have cared to place the 
will where it wowld some day be found by a per- 
son favorable to Sir Dickson? And it seems to 
me hiding it below the eaves would imperil the 
prospect of its ever being found at all.” 

“ Ay, it do seem like it, what with the weather 
and the rooks.” 

“We must continue our search among the 
curiosities, depend upon it.” 

The cheerfulness with which the Minister recom- 
menced betokened that it was no distasteful oc- 
cupation. To some minds such exploration pos- 
sesses fascination ; like turning over the contents 
of an old book-store, each upheaval brings to light 
something valued in the past by those whose 
span is shorter than that of such objects, but 
whose soul lives, as the soul of a book lives long, 
when paper is worm-eaten and binding and in- 
casing have gone to dust. With a half-reverent 
touch the Minister reversed the relics and re- 
mains: steel coffers with intricate locks; bellows 
of wainut-wood carved in high relief; flasks in 
cuir bouilli ; Damascened metallic mirrors; old 
roundels of beech-wood, painted with mottoes ; 
drug pots dating from days of the witch-finders ; 
antique Hispano-Moresco ware, broken, defaced, 
and useless, but still beautiful, and historic of 
Spanish periods; a bronze bust, its cold, green- 
black, stolid face veiled by. more tender lines— 
thanks to the spiders—than in the life or out of it 
had been its portion ; lacquered ware of a by-gone 
fashioning, broad and unsightly; an old shield, 
the tazza studded with antique coins, having a re- 
cumbent lion at top, supporting an enamelled coat 
of arms; a frieze of hunters, @ l’antique—they 
might for their condition have been to the wars ; 
a celadon vase in pieces—each piece a gem; and 
an old genealogical chart, with the record of pat- 
ents of nobility and grants of land bestowed upon 
the Cheffingers of Cheffinger. This last was in a 
carved frame; no glass covered it, the dust lay 
thick on it; and for the moment Mr. Garland 
believed it one of those samplers the dames of fine 
degree delighted to mark, m perpetuation of their 
own skill and their ancestors’ birthdays; but, 
taking it up, he discovered its significance, and 
traced with surprise the high lineage of CuErrin- 
Grr; and he was following with his finger the 
various nobles and honors of the family, when it 
traced a line not marked upon the parchment; 
some folded document was inserted between the 
chart and the board at its back. 

“ve found it, I verily believe!” and rather 
elated by the discovery, Westley Garland, with- 
out compunction, stripped Cheffinger of its honors 
in favor of its latest representative. The old re- 
tainer leaned nervously by him, and shook while 
the Minister removed and unfolded the will. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Yes, that’s it, and there’s my name!” point- 
ing it out with tremulous excitement. . 

‘Coolly as he had once before placed in his 
pocket a very different document in which Sir 
Dickson Cheffinger was interested, did the Minis- 
ter secure the will. ,He again assured the old 
servant of future reward, and having bestowed 
present highly liberal recompense, Mr. Garland 
quitted Cheffinger Abbey while Sir Claude was 
with his guests still enjoying the chase with re- 
newed ardor. . 

* * * * * * 
Returning to his humble lodging one evening 
very fagged and worn, Mr. Cheffinger was sur- 
prised to find a curious-looking individual await- 
ing him, and it is notable that for this person, 
perhaps. stirred by an inner sense of distrust, he 
found no title whatever. In truth, he was not 
prejudiced in favor of the stranger by his ap- 
pearance, which, many as were the singular beings 
with whom Mr. Cheffinger mixed, was, in his opin- , 
ion, the most singular. he had seen yet. It was 
no other than the energetic Mr. Rolf, still upon 
the business of his chief; and the visit was in- 
tended to be an exceedingly serious one, so far as 
Dickson Cheffinger was concerned. Without pay- 
ing the poor gentleman even the compliment of 
calling in the faculty for an affirmative opinion, 
it was definitely decided that Dickson Cheffinger 
should be consigned to a mad-house, and, for 
economy, to a private establishment of the lower 
and more brutal order. t= 

“Tn taking this step,” the chief explained, “we 
are studying the interests of society. This man 
has no business to be at large; if he isn’t mad, 
he ought to be; it won’t be safe for people to 
walk about the public streets soon. The govern- 
ment is negligent ; we set the example, as we oft- 
en do; initiate the prosecution, sustain the whole 
cost of the inquiry, maintain this afflicted fellow- 
being while under restraint; and if, after this serv- 
ice to our country, we are not deserving of special 
commendation next session, I shall lose faith in 
the morality and grateful appreciation of my 
countrymen.” 

Mr. Cheffinger was late; he had kept the visitor 
in a state of impatient waiting a very long time. 
The most uncertain being in existence, Mr. Cheffin- 
ger yet contrived to arrive home each evening 
some time between six and nine o’clock ; his best 
friend would not have ventured to predict to half 
an hour the time of his appearing. The landlady 
gruffly told Mr. Rolf that her lodger came home 
to tea; and he, unaware of the Cheffinger laxity 
in regard to the time of taking that meal, had 
been irritably waiting since half past four. Mr. 
Cheffinger appeared upon the scene at half past 
eight, when the visitor introduced his business 
without further ceremony. ‘Sir Dickson Cheffin- 
ger, I think ?”’ with a short, surly inclination of 
the head. Mr. Rolf was not one to waste polite- 
ness, especially upon some one going eemtingepae 
into a strait-waistcoat. 

“The same, Sir.” With a very gracious bow; 
for Cheffinger would have honored his executioner 
with a gracious bow. . 

“Cousin of Sir Claude Marston Cheffinger ? an 
giving an upward jerk of the head, which might 
or might not indicate the last-named cousin’s head 
being decidedly riveted the tightest, in the opinion 
of Mr. Bartholomew. 

‘His remote cousin, Sir!” Mr. Cheffinger mild- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


ly explained. He had suffered too keenly through 
that usurper to admit the relationship with any 
extravagant pleasure. 

“Of Cheffinger Abbey ?” Bartholomew might 
have been the ancient parish beadle calling over 
the roll preliminary to the other’s refreshing sea- 
son in the stocks. . 

The poor gentleman did not notice it; mere cold 
mention of the well-loved name thrilled him, sent 
the color to his face, warmed him to the heart, 
and he repeated, with enthusiasm, ‘“ Yes, of Chef- 
finger Abbey !” leaning hungrily upon the words 
to come. Oh, to hear something of CHEFFINGER ! 

“You will please accompany me to my house 
to-night, and start with me by first train to-mor- 
row morning. These are the wishes of Sir Claude 
himself.” 

“‘My patience! you don’t say so? His heart is 

touched at last! He will make restitution yet.” 
The speaker went up close to his wolfish inform- 
ant, laid a finger upon his greasy cuff, looked full 
at the bristly chin—not at the eyes, they made 
him feel uncomfortable—and he said, in a low, 
solemn voice, ‘I’ve been waiting so long for jus- 
tice—forty years, Sir—and it doesn’t come; so this 
movement on the part of Claude is doubly welcome. 
It is a long time where one is not provided for.” 

“My principal will see about providing for you 
without loss of time; we’ll start.” 

He opened the door. The poor gentleman was, 
like the other, eager to depart. One look round, 
a sort of good-by look such as the. tender-hearted 
bestow before leaving some scene of pain, anxiety, 
or struggle for a different sphere, and then he 
went to a dirty little sideboard, and took there- 
from a cracked old china tea-cup. It had no 
saucer, and looked very desolate and isolated, yet 
from this the Princess had taken tea with Sir Dick- 
son Cheffinger, and it had been precious to him 
ever since. He regarded it with fondness a min- 


ute or two, while the tall man waited in the door- | 


way, thinking what a piece of justice it was, this 
contemplated fettering of so mad a being; ‘then 
Mr. Cheffinger asked seriously, 

“T suppose I am not likely to return here ?” 

“Not at all likely.” 

“Then I must settle with my landlady.” The 
visitor raised no objection, and he did so, joining 
his guide after a few minutes, the tea-cup, of 
which he had become the happy possessor, being 
safely stowed away in his pocket. 

Mr. Bartholomew Rolf took particular care that 
his easily knocked about companion was not up- 
set during the journey. Upon arriving at his 
dwelling in Gray’s Inn Road, he at once ushered 
the Cheffinger claimant into the presence of Mrs. 
Rolf, who was sitting before the fire roasting chest- 
nuts, her shoes—large, square-toed shoes—on 
the upmost bar. 

Taking advantage of her mother’s being asleep 
and of Mr. Rolf’s being away, Edith Lessie had 
paid a surreptitious visit to the unhappy captive 
of a dark back-room, where little Ella had been 
securely locked up ; and of all the miserable ad- 
ventures that had befallen the child this was the 
most painful. Pale, and with traces of many 
tears on the delicate cheeks, she, with her softer, 
harmless, appealing beauty, quite moved the heart 
of the daughter of Lais; and she went to’her to 
eomfort her. She did not succeed very well, hay- 
ing nothing comforting to say, and being unable 
to comply with Ella’s entreaty to be let out into 


159 


the street—any where to get away from that house. 
But the fourteen-year one took the younger, as an 
elder girl does, and by that mystic influence none 
can account for, imparted solace without any talk 
over it. 

Times were looking dark with the Minister’s 
daughter. Now by laws passing in life as coinci- 
dences, in drama as extravagancies, that feeble 
one, the man they thought mad, who had been 
so long upon the trail of this same girl, and with 
whom times were so dark, was brought to that 
house also, captive to the strength and cunning 
of these brutal tools of the chief. . Altogether the 
Rolf family proved faithful in the service of the 
devil. 

Mrs. Rolf did not alter her lady-like position ; 
Mr. Cheffinger stood looking at the back view of 
the coil ef yellow hair; Mr. Rolf drew off his long 
brown coat, which with his hat he gave to Edith, 
saying, “Take the gentleman’s.” The gentleman 
handed his threadbare great-coat to the girl with 
a polite bow and most agreeable smile. Cheffin- 
ger was quite himself. Things were taking a turn ; 
ere very long he would come into possession of 
his own; he felt it so, and was happy, and with 
great gallantry went near the fire and made a po- 
lite bow also to the lady warming her toes. But 
Mrs. Rolf caught up the fire-shovel, and cried out, 
with expression, “Don’t you come snickering 
around me. Keep him off, Bartholomew, or I don’t 
answer for the consequences !”’ 

Neither could Bartholomew; therefore he call- 
ed off the being who affrighted his lady. Mr. 
Cheffinger supposed her to be troubled with chil- 
blains, and was animated with pity; he seated 
himself at the faded table-cover, following there- 
on with his finger a line straggling away, and 
which seemed to him mapping the road to CHEF- 
FINGER. Mr. Rolf said,: 

“T think I should like some tea, my dear.” 

“ At this time of night? Won’t whiskey do?” 

“Do afterward ; at present I prefer t’other, for 
I’ve been done out 0’ mine waiting for Sir Dick- 
son Cheffinger.” Sir Dickson rose, remarking, 

“Tm so sorry, and I never offered youany! I 
was detained; I meant to have come home, too, 
for I had a letter to write, but the Marquis of 
Westminster button-holed me so tightly in Palace 
Yard I couldn’t get away ; but I apologize, really !” 

Mrs. Rolf turned herself leisurely, and took a 
good long look at the speaker, returning to her 
cookery directly afterward. She had some salt in 
a piece of newspaper on her knee, and savored the 
hot nuts at pleasure; but now she placed her pa- 
per of salt on the mantel-piece, and raising her 
apron full of shells, deposited them liberally. over 
fire, hearth, and fender. 

“Ts an awful bother, Bartholomew, but I sup- 
pose if you want tea you must have it.” 

“T believe that’s the rule in this house, Mrs. 
Rolf.” Without further manifestation of annoy- 
ance, beyond knocking the crockery about and 
causing Sir Dickson excruciating terror by her 
awkwardness, the fair one set tea, dispatching 
her daughter to the cook-shop for a plate of 
“chicken and ’am.” Altogether, if this couple 
represented Cousin Claude’s choice of acquaint- 
ance, Sir Dickson did not think much of his taste. | 

The viands were brought, and devoured by the 
host, Sir Dickson, poor gentleman, who was be- 
ginning to feel exceeding faint, not being invited 
to partake of tea or any thing else. “After a 


160 


while Mr. Bartholomew said, ‘‘ Better show Sir 
Dickson to his room, my dear.” 

He followed the lady forth with a courteous 
good-night to his host, and a kind smile be- 
stowed upon Edith. Outside they passed a tall, 
singularly upright female, walking with the seri- 
ousness of Lady Macbeth, and carrying a tin 
chamber-candlestick, the extinguisher of which, 
hanging by a piece of old boot-lace, swung before 
the spectral lady like a plummet, and seemed de- 
signed to preserve her perpendicularity unique. 
This was Madame Reignard, the other lodger; 
teacher of the piano, of singing, and of deport- 
ment; rather a ghastly person, of an unwhole- 
some sallow hue, and with two large curls either 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


playing this national melody, the queen of the 
country would topple off the throne; another 
said the late M. Reignard had been conductor of a 
popular band, and expired in the performance of 
this anthem; a third was of opinion that M. and 
Madame once kept a music-shop, over the door 
of which were the royal arms, the same having 
fallen and brained the unfortunate proprietor. 
All mere speculation, but people do speculate; and 
these were nothing to some of the ideas broached, 
all of which had little bearing on the national 
anthem. Sometimes the lady would rise in the 
middle of the night, seat herself solemnly on the 
rickety music-stool, and discourse her favorite 
tune until every loyal subject within hearing de- 


PSS 


He 
h 
tH! 

i) 


f) 


“AND WITH GREAT GALLANTRY WENT NEAR THE FIRE AND MADE A POLITE BOW.” 


side a face that appeared carved of stone, and to 
have been left out in the yard to be colored the 
original London color. Madame was a peculiar 
person, and while being undoubtedly clever, was 
distinguished by odd little ways which were a 
source of great discomfort to her neighbors. One 
of these eccentricities took the form, whenever 
she was at home, of sitting at her piano and play- 
ing one melody. She had never been known to 
play any thing else, and as it chanced to be “God 
save the Queen,” it exercised a depressing influence 
upon those living within hearing, who thus passed 
an existence upon the brink of something always 
concluded. Various were the solutions suggested 
for the phenomenon. One had it that madame 
held to the conviction that if she did not keep 


voutly wished that her Majesty was safe and have 
done with it. 

Sir Dickson Cheffinger looked upon this strange 
being with emotion; there was a. stateliness of 
mien, and almost regal sternness about the face, 
that impressed him deeply, and he wondered 
much what illustrious and unfortunate being she 
was; perhaps some banished sovereign, or one 
who had never been banished, and never reigned, 
but who looked forward with sublime expectancy 
to the time when that should be. Sir Dickson 
knew that such things did happen, and he was 
full of sympathy; and when, some hours later, 
he was awakened by lugubrious strains, he arose 
and dressed himself, stood out in the passage in 


the dark, and listened. At such a time the in- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


spiring if dolorous composition had overpowering 
effect upon Sir Dickson. All was silent in the 
house but for that strange performance proceed- 
ing from below. To have expected Sir Dickson 
to control his knightly and chivalrous ardor 
would have been to expect him to be false to him- 
self. He followed the sound with brave and 
courtly bearing, knocking his head against every 
thing that came in his way. When, however, he 
reached the bottom of the stairs, the music ab- 
ruptly ceased, and Sir Dickson stood in the pas- 
sage wondering, while a ray from a Gray’s Inn 
Road gas lamp illumined a flying battalion of 
beetles. Why had that appeal to the heart so 
suddenly become silent ? Groping about, Sir Dick- 
son all at once became motionless; he heard vio- 
lent sobbing, and stooping by a door discovered 
it proceeded from within that chamber. It fired 
the spirit of romantic enthusiasm, which entered 
so largely into his being; there could be no doubt 
the imperial performer was in sore trouble, with- 
out a champion, defender, or supporter. He would 
seek-an instant interview, and lay the offer of his 
service, his sympathy, his allegiance, and his 
fortune at her gracious feet. He fumbled at the 
door, first gently knocking, next trying the handle. 
It was locked fast, and must be locked on the out- 
side, or she could surely open it, if but an inch. 
The thought of her being a prisoner still further 
stirred Sir Dickson, and he pondered, ultimately 
hitting upon a plan that for a man declared mad 
was a happy one. He cautiously went in search 
of a key; trying the other doors, and finding one, 
brought it triumphantly to his captive’s door, and 
excitedly introduced it into the lock, and could 
neither turn nor withdraw it. Then Sir Dickson 
pondered again, and tried the refractory instru- 
ment once more, humored it this time, and after 
a due interval of obstinacy it came out with ease. 
The poor knight found one more key, and with 
every care applied it to the lock; it opened the 
door with docility. It was very dark, and Sir 
Dickson’s delicacy induced him to pause, while 
saying, “I am sorry I have no light with me; you 
will not distinguish friend from foe. . I have come 
to release you!” The inmate of the chamber 
uttered a little cry of joy, her sobs ceased, and 
with eagerness she implored— 

“Tf you will only take me away frowi here I 
will pray that you may be rewarded forever, Sir! 
A woman brought me to this house, pretending 
she came from my mother. They threaten to 
kill me if I am not quiet, and I am sure will do 
so. ” 

“No they will not,” said Sir Dickson, ‘ while 
Iam inthe house. But whoare you? From the 
voice, it should be a young lady of gentility.” 

“Yam the daughter of Mr. Lionel Travers, of 
Torquay.” 

““ Now by the peerage is it so? Then I am in 
fortune’s way to-night!” This half to himself, 
and with no little surprise and gratification. 

‘“‘ And we have lost poor papa; that is why we 
are in London.” 

“‘T know all about it, and will soon have you 
out of this bewildering city. You’ve heard your 
papa talk about his friend Mr. Garland, of course ? 
Well, he has been looking for yourself and Lady 
Travers for a long time.” 

It was confusing, and the child felt she had no 
time to unravel it; the longing for liberty was 
paramount. She went to his side with touching 

Vor. 1.—L 


161 


confidence, and begged, “Take me away, dear Sir, 
now, lest we be heard.” 

“To be sure I will; not that there is any thing 
to fear, Miss Travers, "while I am by your side.” 

He thought of his ‘journey in the morning, and 
of his prospects. But before these he thought 
of that good friend in Brighton, whose heart 
would be gladdened by this recovery or discovery 
—Sir Dickson did not quite know which—of the lit- 
tle girl. Without hesitation, both as they were, 
hatless, coverless, hand in hand, they made for the 
street, Sir Dickson, without excess of caution, un- 
chaining and unbolting the street door. Mrs. 
Rolf was essentially a sleepy subject, and heard 
nothing ; Mr. Rolf was a hard-worked and fatigued 
mortal, and slept the sleep of the honorable, and 
heard nothing ; not so the imperial musician, who, 
sitting at the. piano in a somnolent state, sudden- 
ly heard the rattle of the chain, and dashed into 
the anthem for her Majesty’s-preservation ; and 
this was the thrilling strain that played out Sir 
Dickson with Ella. 

The streets were cold, and, as they hastened 
along, it all at once occurred to him he had no 
definite destination. He had rushed out to go to 
Brighton, but that was scarcely a defined intention. 
One thing was certain, without overcoat, hat, or a 
penny piece, leading this lonely child in a corre- 
sponding plight, he stood an undoubted chance of 
being pertinently questioned by the police. Sir 
Dickson did not particularly love the protectors 
of our civil rights. 

“TI know what I will do!” cried Sir Dickson, 
struck by a bright idea. ‘I will call upon Lord 


Dalton ; he will aid us in this emergency.” 


It was. a détour by faith; he could not tell 
whether the elegant baronet was in town or no, 
but he proceeded West, and arrived at Sir Kin- 
naird’s residence in Piccadilly long before the 
earliest of morning. hues lent color to the Park. 
With a ring that alarmed the entire mansion, Sir 
Dickson, shivering with the cold, stood upon ‘the 
step with his young charge. Sir Kinnaird Dalton, 
who was in town, heard the bell with disgust. 

“Fire, bet a sovereign—awful nuisance—wish 
to goodness I’d got some chloroform in the room, 
for I couldn’t get out sth a window if I was singe- 
ing!” 

The labor of imagining the confusion, the ex- 
citement, and subverted order of things conse- 
quent upon an alarm of fire, so prostrated the 
baronet that he drew the eider coverlet, the silk- 
embroidered blankets, and cobweb tissue sheet 
well about his delicate ears, and left things to 
burn or otherwise. 

The thoughtful Simmons, much shocked by the 
unseemly disturbance in the dead of the night, 


| clothed himself hastily and proceeded to ascertain 


the cause. One of the servants had softly unfast- 
ened and opened the door, and was interrogating 
the man and child upon the door- step when Sim- 
mons arrived. That worthy immediately recog- 
nized the gentleman of many titles, and inviting 
him with every consideration into an anteroom, 
had the door closed again and dispatched the 
servant to arouse the under-housekeeper, and 
request she would summon one of the maids. 
It was all done with that consummate speed, 
silence, and tact in which Simmons was so per- 
fect an adept. He had no intention of permit- 
ting his master to be aroused before the usual 
time, or to be annoyed by any commotion what- 


162 


soever, and, as a matter of fact, Sir Kinnaird had 
gone to sleep again, quite happy, with the dainty 
smile upon the mouth, and remarking, with half- 
cynical sweetness, “If I must burn I must, but at 
all events it shall be comfortably.” It excited 
him so little that he passed off to sleep instantly ; 
at that hour he did not pretend even to realize 
the, to most people, highly unpleasant situation. 
Any situation, either pleasant or unpleasant, Sir 
Kinnaird avoided carefully ; the exertion of grap- 
pling with a situation or a position was utterly be- 
yond him. 

Simmons, by diligently’ remembering what he 
had overheard, knew perfectly well Sir Kinnaird’s 
wishes with respect to the little girl. Simmons 
had no doubt this was the identical one, and took 
care to see that herself and her companion were 
well entertained until Sir Kinnaird rose and 
dressed. 

a nee 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 
OF BEING WORTH ONE’S WEIGHT IN SILVER. 


GREAT was the annoyance of the heir to Frog- 
gypond when he discovered that his revered rela- 
tive rather sided with those who were anxious to 
mark their appreciation of the civil, moral, and 
intellectual worth of which he was the reputed 
possessor. 

“The only thing I have to say against it, EL 


more (and I must confess I feel surprised the em- | 


blem of our house has not occurred to the people 
who profess to think so highly of its present rep- 
resentative), is that the service of plate, so far as 
I can understand, will not perpetuate in gold or 
silver the memory of our frogs.” 

“T hope not, ’m sure!” 

“Elmore!” The old lady sat bolt-upright in a 
yellow-brown silk dress covered with large green 
spots; she looked severely upon her grandson 
willing to explain— 

“JT do not care to see our frogs caricatured, 
dear grandma, and no local craftsman could do 
justice to them.” 

Much pacified, Mrs. Elsynge gently went on to 
say how gratifying to her was this public evidence 
of the regard in which Elmore was held. 

“T have always hoped, my boy, that you would 
let me see you do something that would be a pride 
to me.” 

‘“‘But I haven’t done any thing, that’s the nui- 
sance of it!” 

“Never mind; they are going to give you a 
testimonial, so it is just the same. Depend on’t, 
my dear, unless these shrewd and discriminating 
men of business had detected that virtue and 
probity which it has always been the pride of 
our house to possess, they would never have 
thought out this elaborate expression of regard, 
this manifestation of affection for you, this testi- 
monial to the honorable standing of your family. 
You should feel highly complimented, my dear. 
For a long time I have known something was 
about to happen: night after night the vener- 
able friends yonder met at one spot and uttered 
one sound—it was an anthem of jubilee, Elmore, 
and it meant that the last of the Elsynges was to 
be awarded the palm for integrity and virtue.” 

Mr. Elsynge did not feel to be particularly gift- 
ed with either, but he left his grandmamma in 
blissful ignorance and rode home to dinner. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


The gentleman certainly had one weakness that 
was ineradicable—the love of horses. Actuated 
by his fondness for equine spectacles, his inclina- 
tion after dinner led him to pay a visit to Ring- 
dom and Tanner’s Hippodrome, then located on 
the Green. But how far was it consistent for a 
man about to receive a public testimonial to his 
civil, moral, and intellectual worth, and who was 
the present representative of the integrity, virtue, 
and probity of a family whereof a froggy anthem 
of jubilee had been celebrated in advance—how 
far was it consistent for such a one to visit fairs, 
circuses, and places of worldly amusement? That 
became the question, and Mr. Elsynge decided to 
talk it over with his friend Bruce, whose lands 
and residence adjoined the Elsynge estate. Er- 
nest Bruce shared his friend’s fondness for field- 
sports and equestrian exercise, but having care- 
fully avoided public engagements and connections 
of all sorts with the class he especially disliked— 
the commercial community—he laughed very 
heartily at the dilemma in which his friend was 
placed, and his advice took the defiant form. 

“Give them something to talk about, Elmore, 
and perhaps they may present it to some other 
fellow.” 

“But, vou know, I never was a free lance; be- 
sides, think of the honored prestige I am expect- 
ed to support.” 

“T don’t envy you; but by all means let us 
finish our cigars and go into the tent.” 

They strolled to the circus, and were ushered 
to the seats of honor—extremely insecure seats, 
Mr. Bruce thought. He was a tall, fine-looking 
man, broad-shouldered, with massive limbs, and 
possessing innate repugnance to sitting upon a 
plank, even carpeted. Mr. Elsynge noticed noth- 
ing of this, his whole attention from the moment 
of entering was taken up by observing a beauti- 
ful child in the arena. 

“A renegade so soon!” said Mr. Bruce, in a 
low voice, watching his friend’s intent interest 
with excessive amusement. 

‘“‘My dear fellow, did you ever set eyes on such 
a lovely girl? What a shame she should be 
here !”” ; 

“Hush! control yourself ; remember the testi- 
monial.” Mr. Elsynge flushed slightly, threw 
down the remains of his cigar, shrugged his 
shoulders, and said, 

“What a provoking fellow you are!” 

6c Envy p? 

“T envy these mountebanks always having the 
company of that girl! I wonder what sort of 
character she bears ?”’ 

‘“‘Unapproachable !” said the other, mockingly, 
and Elsynge tapped his foot with his cane impa- 
tiently; it seemed impossible that one with so 
sweet a face could be aught but of lily fairness 
of life. 

“T think her the most beautiful girl I have 
ever seen,” said he, with unusual seriousness. 
It alarmed lis friend, who entertained a great 
distaste for a “lower-order admiration,” as he 
termed it. 

“T suppose, like myself, you think each fresh 
face prettier than the last; but take care to view 
them according to the laws of perspective. I 
have carefully avoided the weakness, or I should 
have been very much struck by something or other 
in every capital in Europe.” 

Mr. Elsynge changed the subject, his eyes never 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


straying from the girl, however, so long as she was 
in the ring. 

“ Fair cattle, are they not, for travellers ?” 

“Yes, <A trainer told me once he could dis- 
tinguish in the dark, by feeling the hoof, the dif- 
ferent classes—farm, road, course, battle-field, 
and cireus. I scarcely believe it, but there is no 
telling.” 

Presently the sinuous Joey of Japan made his 
entrée, and the gentlemen took their leave. Mr. 
Bruce could not witness human gyrations, which 
he said always gave him a headache, and Elsynge 
was impatient to go behind. Giving his card to 
a groom he requested permission to inspect the 
stud, and was conducted to the impromptu stables 
with much obsequiousness. Having viewed the 
animals with genuine and admiring interest, they 
were about to leave when the young lady herself 
passed by. 

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Elsynge, while she 
looked up timidly at the abrupt address, her 
large fawn-like eyes glancing rapidly from his 
broad good-humored face to that of his friend. 
“Do you make a long stay here ?” 

“We might stay beyond the three fair days, 
Sir. I do not know Mr. Ringdom’s intentions.” 
And with a modest diffident inclination of the 
head she passed on. 

“Never heard such a voice in my life!” said 
Elsynge, with enthusiasm, forgetting for the mo- 
ment the unimpressive character beside him. 

“Remember the testimonial!’ said Mr. Bruce, 
with sarcastic drollery; “and now come home 
and have tea with me. I’ve some fresh sporting 
sketches I should like you to see.” 

Mr. Elsynge accompanied his friend home, 
where Mrs. Westwood, the housekeeper, did the 
honors. Mrs. Westwood was a distant relative. 
Mr. Bruce could never have tolerated an ordinary 
salaried person in the close contact inevitable 
where the housekeeper takes supervision of the 
establishment. Mrs. Westwood was an exceed- 
ingly upright, precise, and decorous lady. At one 
time the Westwoods kept a carriage, and now 
that the husband who had purchased and sup- 
ported it for her pleasure was gone to his rest, 
this lady-like woman could never forget having 
at one time been the mistress of an establish- 
ment of her own. Mr. Bruce entertained great 
respect for this distant relative, and the distant 
relative entertained great respect for Mr. Bruce ; 
thus a balance of good-will was very happily pre- 
served. All the same she thought him exceed- 
ingly untidy in the house, disliked his habit of 
smoking, disapproved of that ineffable bias sta- 
blewards (poor Westwood had been an intellect- 
ual man), and was of opinion that he ought some- 
times to go to church instead of reclining all 
Sunday upon his luxurious couches reading sport- 
ing papers. (Mrs. Westwood held a theory that 
every one possessed of luxuriant furniture ought 
to go regularly to church—to pray fervently that 
they might never lose it.) Upon one point the 
distant relatives agreed beautifully—in their liking 
for Elmore Elsynge. The lady was very polite to 
the heir, and at night dreamed of the frogs almost 
as much as the mistress of Froggypond herself. 

When Mr. Elsynge arrived home that evening 
he found an official-looking communication await- 
ing him, which read as follows: 


“The inhabitants of Seaborough and neighbor- 


163 


hood request the attendance of Elmore Elsynge, 
Ksq., at a meeting to be held at the Town-hall 
to-morrow afternoon at 3 o’clock. 

“ Dr, Hunter in the chair. 

(Signed) Sotomon Srucox, Hon. Sec.” 


“Tt’s come at last!” muttered the heir, with a 
moan of repugnance. “J must go through with 
it, I suppose!” Thinking considerably more of 
the chase than of the classics, this accepting a 
testimonial to his intellectual worth seemed so 
like a sailing under false colors that he felt quite 
uncomfortable in consequence. Mr. Elsynge had 
no desire to be taken for an intellectual man—in 
fact, he would rather not; he encountered so 
many of them about, and daily mixed with peo- 
ple who knew so much, that he esteemed it an 
obvious virtue to know a little less than other 
people. ‘Learning is so cheap,” said Mr, El- 
synge, “it has become decidedly vulgar, and I 
resolutely decline to augment what little knowl- 
edge I unfortunately possess, and refuse to ac- 
quire any fresh information whatsoever, so’ con- 
vinced am I that ignorance is bliss, and that the 
people who know absolutely nothing are the real 
saviors of society.” True, this had been said in 
the presence of the intellectual housekeeper, but 
it was really as close as could be to the genuine 
sentiments of this cross-country squire. ‘Then 
why,” thought he, “should I, of all mortals on 
this teeming planet, have been selected for the 
infliction of a testimonial to intellectuality ?” 

However, his sideboard was to be converted 
into a shrine of Actseon, while the poor at their 
gates were sent on to the next town for relief. 

“ Again,” thought the ingrate, “to give a man 
whose loves have been as many as his years a 
tribute to his moral worth is a caricature of virtue, 


_very trying to a well-constituted and rightly bal- 


anced conscience.” And here his thoughts wan- 
dered off again in the direction of the circus, 
‘“‘ One can no more help having a passion for pret- 
ty girls than one can help having a passion for 
horses ; in fact, they very often go together and 
mark the same quiet and gentlemanly taste.” 

Next morning—the morning of the important 
event—as though Mr. Elsynge was doomed to be | 
tantalized, while riding down to Seaborough to 
the gunsmith’s, the approach of a band of music 
warned him that the procession of the company 
was parading the principal streets of the town, 
and he held his mare in with a firm hand, for if 
she did not bolt at the sight of that Japanese con- 
tortionist she ought to. The cavalcade turned 
slowly into the High Street, one carriage contain- 
ing the musicians, who all labored assiduously at 
waking the town up; then followed ladies in ar- 
mor, and knights in various costumes of the na- 
tions; not always accurate but effective ; retainers 
bearing banners, and pretty pages upon graceful 
ponies; chariots of war and chariots of peace, al- 
legoric, florid, and decidedly chilling for those 
scantily clad ones posed upon the pedestals ; ob- 
stinate little mules, whereon the jesters played 
such pranks the good people of Seaborough were 
much taken thereby, and errand-boys behind the 
sugar tubs and merchandise cases made their 
mind up to aspire for the laurels of the amphi- 
theatre ; then came a lady in a black velvet riding- 
habit, upon a highly trained steed, which pranced 
as though the road was of dirt, whereas it was of 
singularly noisy and uneven stone; and the pro- 
. 


164 A MODERN 


cession finally terminated with a lofty car of some 
magnificence, as cars-processional go, a gilded and 
mirrored device upon which was a figure of a 
winged horse, pure white, and astride the horse a 
girl more Cupid than fairy, bearing bow and quiv- 
er; moreover, she was tastefully dressed in blue 
satin and silver; andas Mr. Elsynge caught sight 
of the pretty one thus elevated, he exclaimed, 


“Never saw any thing so lovely in my life!” He 
had reined in before the shop of Sticky, the gro- 
cer, and Uriah was in the balcony watering Tom 
Thumb geraniums; it was a darkly significant 
look Sticky sent to Mrs. Sticky, who was waiting 
to refill the water-pot, just within the little room 
above the shop. 

Mr. Elsynge rode on, thinking what a charming 
companion the girl would be, when older, to ac- 
company one to the hunt, the races, or the Park 
in town during the season. His yellow riding- 
gloved hand seemed all at once monstrously thick, 
while the thought of the waxen cheek and rose- 
bud mouth sent a thrill to his heart. It would be 
a joyous piece of fortune to be the possessor of 
so dainty a treasure. ‘‘ Talk about a testimonial 
to a man’s civil, moral, and intellectual worth ; 
that’s the sort of testimonial for me!” With 
which wicked remark to himself he arrived at 
his gunsmith’s. 

Mr. Elsynge went home to luncheon. Mean- 
time at a preliminary meeting assembling at the 
house of Mr. Alderman Gubbins there was a re- 
actionary movement. In consequence of a cir- 
cumstance communicated by their dear friend 
Sticky, public opinion was divided. Mr. Sticky 
had informed the meeting that Mr. Elsynge spent 
some hours on the preceding evening with the 
questionable females of the circus, and he had 
overheard him in the town that day openly ex- 
press admiration for one of them, and Mr. Sticky . 
feared the people were making a mistake; in his 
opinion, Elmore Elsynge, Esq., was not a fit and 
proper person to become the recipient of so splen- 
did atestimonial, This was contested by Bacchus 
Bin (with whom the squire’s account was large); 
he was well acquainted with Mr. Elsynge’s love 
of horses, and he had probably gone behind to 
inspect them. As for expressing admiration for 
one member of the company, he (Bacchus Bin) 
had heard there was one at all events fully wor- 
thy of such admiration. At which Mr. Sticky was 
heard to pronounce the terrible word ‘‘ Shechem,” 
almost in the tone of a judgment, and there was an 
ominous calm; then Mr. Sticky, with righteous 
and virtuous emotion, said he felt conscientiously 
compelled to withdraw his subscription. Mr. Bin 
replied that since the subscriptions had poured in 
from rich and poor alike beyond all expectation, 
it would not seriously impoverish the fund if Mr. 
Sticky did withdraw it. The grocer left the house 
of Mr. Alderman Gubbins much hurt, and confi- 
dent the prophet Ezekiel had flourished more par- 
ticularly for this generation than for any other. 
Mr. Smelt, the fish-monger, was sorry a doubt had 
been cast upon the object of their interest, but if 
what his friend Mr. Sticky had said was true, it 
certainly altered the aspect of affairs—really it 
was more a question of esteem than of money. 
Bacchus Bin replied that some people were fond- 
er of parting with their esteem than with their 
money, and a few were precious niggardly with 
both. Mr. Smelt said he had a suspicion all was 
not quite the thing, and that was why he did not 

4 


MINISTER. 


press the Memorial Window. Mr. Bin answered 
that Elmore Elsynge, Esq., was one of the goad 
old stock, and would, he was quite sure, decline 
the testimonial altogether if it came to his knowl- 
edge there were dissentient voices. Mr. Smelt 
kindly said he didn’t want to cause painful con- 
fusion of that sort; he would be quite justified in 
adopting his friend Sticky’s example and with- 
drawing his subscription... Mr. Bin was happy to 
say Mr. Smelt’s contribution hadn’t been melted 
down in the making of the magnificent piece of 
plate, then at the Town-hall, and he should feel 
much pleasure in moving that their respected 
treasurer, Mr, Simcox, return the said contribution 
there and then. This was done, and Mr. Smelt 
left the house of Alderman Gubbins much relieved ; 
and he remarked in confidence to Mrs. Smelt that 
out of the seven thousand known species of fish, 
he thought Seaborough was especially noted for 
flats. 

Mr. Vault, the stone-mason, here trespassed, as 
he called it, upon the attention of the assembly, 
and ventured an opinion that it was to some ex- 
tent satisfactory that his proposition of the Obelisk 
had not been carried out, since all such imperish- 
able monuments bearing record to* the— 

Here some commotion was caused by the huge 
black cat attached to the aldermanic establish- 
ment clawing its way up Mr. Vault’s back, causing 
the speaker to wince with the pain and cease ab- 
ruptly. The cat-couchant upon Vault’s shoulder 
glared with ghastly green eyes upon the meeting, 
one member of which, who was nervous in the mat- 
ter of black cats, grumbled something about its 
being like a “ death’s-head,” and was seized: with 
a violent fit of coughing; then taking a grubby- 
looking, evil-smelling lozenge from his waistcoat 
pocket, he placed this in the aperture nearest the 
seat of trouble, and the noise was by degrees al- 
layed. After this, Mr. Easel, the artist, begged to 
remind his friends that Mr. Elsynge was fond of 
painting, and if seen talking with some young 
member of the circus company, it was merely, no 
doubt, to arrange for some picturesque transfer 
in permanent pigments. An old gentleman, name 
unknown, who was taking snuff, here curtly mut- 
tered “ Exactly,” but the tone of voice was iron- 
ic and the gentleman’s countenance so vindictive 
that the impression created was unfavorable. 
Then several commencing to talk at once, Mr. Sil- 
verside called to order, Mr. Silverside said he 
had heard the remarks of his respected fellow- 
townsmen with disgust and indignation ; he had as 
great a regard for peace and order as any person, 
but he.must say, and he thought the meeting 
would say with him, when he said that he must 
say there had been more than enough said about 
what there was nothing to say; and which, when 
said, amounted to nothing, say what they would, 
for what people said, he must say, was of little 
account if said prejudiced and bearing scandal 
upon the face of it; and if it was thought excep- 
tion would be taken to the division of opinion, the 
presentation, in consequence, would be transferred: 
to somebody else—which really was no business 
of any body’s, the friends of the deceased hay- 
ing— Here it became but too evident the poor 
gentleman had lost himself again. ’ Set straight, 
he proceeded to explain and make his meaning 
clearer, and wished to signify that the friends of 
Mr. Elsynge would have the gratification of know- 
ing that he knew they had known of all they knew 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


at that time, although then anknown to him, which, 
if he knew (and, of course, it was known he did 
not know), he would, knowing all then known to 
the meeting (which, ‘of course, knew nothing of 
the kind), only have to— 

Here Alderman Gubbins, with the cry of a 
watchman, uttered the warning numerals, “‘ One 
—two! We have no time to lose; my friend 
Mr. Silverside has expressed my own sentiments 
exactly. I think the meeting may close; in an 
hour we shall re-assemble at the Town-hall; I 
have a note from Dr. Hunter saying he will be 
there to time; the platform has been tastefully 
decorated, we expect a large attendance, Amen!’ 
The worthy alderman was an eminently religious 
man, as was well known, and was so used to fam- 
ily devotion in his household the benediction 
apostrophe slipped out in lieu of the adieu. 

The account of the proceedings was repeated 
verbatim within half an hour to Mr. Elsynge by 
the same obliging informant as heretofore, and 
it served to increase the gentleman’s distaste for 
this intrinsic piece of sham esteem. 

However, he rode to the town, put his horse 
up, and walked into the Town-hall, was cheered, 
and conducted to the seat of honor in the front 
of the platform. Dr. Hunter immediately arose 
from the chair, and bowing to the gentleman, 
the audience, and the imposing, albeit slightly 
commercial, committee upon the platform, open- 
ed the proceedings by stating in a lucid, perspic- 
uous manner the object of their assembling ; ; and 
again the appreciative audience applauded, drown- 
ing the critical exclamation of a censorious rural 
dzemon, which bore an irreverent resemblance to 
‘““Gammon!” The proceedings were pursued 
without further indecorum, and Elmore Elsynge, 
Esq., quitted the Town-hall the proud possessor 
of the piece of plate. Carefully transported to 
his house, it was there placed upon a sideboard 
in the breakfast-room, and very handsome it 
looked, notwithstanding what Mr. Elsynge might 
think about it; but having been born with a sil- 
ver spoon in his mouth, he naturally entertained 
less respect for this sort of thing than is custom- 
ary with mortals whose birth does not partake of 
argentine favor. 

In the evening the gentleman went alone to 
the circus; his patience was much tried, there 
was a tedious bill to sit out before his favorite 
appeared. Still, he endured the ennwi, studied 
the flourish of foreign nomenclature on the pro- 
gramme, sat indifferent to the staring of a confi- 
dent female upon his left, and forgave an old 
gentleman on the plank below, whom he happen- 
ed to kick in the small of the back, and who 
turned round sharp and swore at him; having 
pocketed a cork, which a member of the sixpenny 
circle had so levelled from a ginger-beer bottle as 
to mark him, causing him to drop his gold-head- 
ed stick into the limbo beneath the planks where- 
on Messrs. Ringdom and Tanner’s genteel pa- 
trons were supposed to sit enjoying themselves. 
After these varied experiences, the gentleman was 
not sorry to see the young performer ushered in 
with some.ceremony by Mr. Ringdom himself, 
and looking prettier than ever in her fluttering 
petals of rose and white gauze. She then went 
through a series of such graceful evolutions that 
Mr. Elsynge’s admiration of her lissom, fluent 
action and extreme beauty was much increased. 
He saw an unspoken poetry in her movements, 


165 


a fire of enthusiasm in the splendid dash with 
which she went through the acts down for her 
performance, and, like most people in love, he saw 
wrongly: it was her desperate endeavor to con- 
quer timidity; he might have seen, but for being 
blinded, an almost fierce fixedness of eye and 
set hardness of feature amounting to a look of 
horror when it came to leaping the paper-covered 
hoops, a trial of her strength as well as of her 
skill for which she was physically unequal. 
With daring that exhausted her she accomplish- 
ed half the number of rounds apportioned to the 
scene, drew in her breath, gave a fawn-like 
spring, and came through covered with shreds of 
paper; panting, glowing, stooping again, and as 
though spending all her remaining strength and 
courage, giving a tremendous leap and cleaving 
it again, amidst the plaudits of the people; then 
breathlessly, -more crimson upon the cheek, a 
dangerous light in the eye, and a frightened look 
that, as she came round and passed Mr. Elsynge, 
was plainly detected and stirred the blood in his 
veins, she crouched for one more bound, but her 
limbs felt clogged with lead, and she fell from 
the horse, and not until she lay outstretched and 
motionless did the crowd become conscious of an 
accident. Before those of the ring or audience 
had time to rush to her assistance, Mr. Elsynge 
sprang into the arena, and, kneeling down, lifted 
the slight and fragile form. Mr. Ringdom was 
by his side instantly, a cluster of sympathizers 
gathered round, among others Mr. Klsynge’s 
groom, who having seen his master’s movement 
joined him in the ring. “She is badly hurt,” 
said Mr. Elsynge to the proprietor. “Thi will 
be a long and expensive affair; allow her to be 
taken to my house, where she shall receive every 
attention and care; my housekeeper will display 
a mother’s tenderness toward her, and I will be 
answerable for the medical services.” Mr. Ring- 
dom reviewed the position in a trice; it was cer- 
tain he would lose her services for a prolonged 
period, and to have the cost of surgical attend- 
ance and an apartment for her use the whole of 
the time staggered him, and he assented, express- 
ing his obligation. Mr. Elsynge dispatched his 
man for the “eartiage ; meanwhile the child, who 
lay insensible, had been carried gently to the 
dressing-tent, where the cool air revived her, and 
she opened her eyes, moaning piteously. “I 
know something of falls, Mr. Ringdom,” said the 
squire, “‘and fear this is a serious one; but if she 
escaped the hoofs it may not be so bad as seems 
probable. Here is my card; yourself or Mrs. 
Ringdom will, of course, call and see our poor 
little sufferer whenever it is agreeable.” 

“Tn the name of Mrs. Ringdom, permit me to 
thank you, Sir. This kindness from a compara- 
tive stranger is overpowering to us. Believe me, 
weare not insensibleto your patronage. We have 
had the honor of performing before most of the 
aristocracy of the kingdom ; our efforts to please 
by high- class entertainment ‘and superlative talent 
have been appreciated; we do not rely upon ele- 
phants, nor Arabs, nor worn-out drama, nor mil- 
itary spectacle, nor jockey acts and steeple- chas- 
ing, which the dimensions of the building don’t 
admit of, but we provide individual talent of the 
highest excellence, and the most accomplished 
artistes money will engage. Mr. Tanner is not 
here to-day; we have another establishment, now 
located at Bath. Mr. Tanner is at Bath, but I will 


166 A MODERN MINISTER. 


not fail to communicate to him your generous 
courtesy. Perhaps next time we have the honor 
to visit Seaborough you will permit us to an- 
nounce the evening’s entertainment as under the 
immediate patronage and in the presence of 
Elmore—Elmore” (looking close at the card) “ El- 
synge, Esq. ?” 

“Oh! with pleasure, Mr. Ringdom. Pardon 
me, I see my servant; we will have our patient 
borne tenderly, please, to the carriage.” 

A commotion in the circus compelled the pro- 
prietor to hasten thither. The audience refused 
to witness the Bounding Brothers until Mr. Ring- 
dom had re-assured them as to the safety of their 
favorite, Mr. Ringdom, raising his white-gloved 
hand, signified his wish to address the audience. 
At first there was some hissing, but the proprie- 
tor waited with composure until silence was re- 
stored, when he spoke as follows: 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,—I ask the favor of your 
kind attention. The accident you have witnessed, 
and which no one deplores more than myself, is 
not unusual in an amphitheatre. [Hisses, and 
shouts of “No! no!”] But I say it is not un- 
usual, and if any person present understands more 
about the management of the hippodrome than I 
do, let him come into the ring, and I'll walk out of 
it! [Cheers andapplause.] Ladies and gentlemen, 
I thank you for your confidence. [State bow, nat- 
ural to chiefs of the manége.| I have been travel- 
ling with one or more tented companies and studs 
for thirty-five years, and I have always met with 
the courtesy you extend to me to-day, and always 
without unseemly interruption.” (Great confu- 
sion €mong the opposition, with hissing.) The 
Bounding Brothers brought in a tub, and the 
proprietor mounted it, and lifting his white-gloved 
hand, shouted, “If this continues, the perform- 
ances will terminate abruptly. This establish- 
ment has been conducted in a respectable man- 
ner, and shall continue to be. [A lull.] Upon 
three previous occasions when we have visited 
your town our efforts to amuse have afforded 
general satisfaction, or we should not have come 
here again. Upon our next visit, I have author- 
ity for saying the evening’s entertainment will be 
under the distinguished patronage of Elmore El- 
synge, Esq. [Terrific cheers, and state bow 
again.] Ladies and gentlemen, I beg to assure 
you the young lady is not seriously injured, al- 
though she will not probably be able to return to 
her duties for some days. I have been re yuest- 
ed to allow her to be removed in the care of a 
kind friend of influence and position present this 
evening, and I have consented. You will thus 
see I am not endeavoring to smuggle off a victim- 
ized body, as any one might suppose from your 
manifestation of feeling. Ladies and gentlemen, 
the performances will proceed without further in- 
terruption. Mr. George Turpin, Australian bare- 
backed rider, will next have the honor of appear- 
ing.” 

Mr. Ringdom retired amidst continuous applause, 
the Bounding Brothers rolling the tub after him, 
and not looking particularly pleasant. 

Meanwhile, upon the way home, Mr. Elsynge 
cailed upon Dr. Hunter, and took that patient 
professional gentleman with him. The doctor 
had always held to the opinion that if he waited 
with patience some stranger from distant parts 
might benefit by his skill, it being a matter of cer- 
tainty that nothing would ever happen to the 


Sleperton and Seaborough people; and the lady 
who presided over the Elsynge hotisekeeping at- 
tended to the comfort of the poor sufferer, with 
many an ejaculation of tender sympathy and ad- 
miring interest. The doctor sat upon one side of 
the bed with grave solicitude, Mr. Elsynge upon 
the other, looking with anxiety toward Dr. Hunter 
for an opinion. The doctor assumed a profound- 
ly learned and scientific air, appearing slightly 
troubled, while deeply impressed with the respon- 
sibility of the case. Dr. Hunter, as the leading 
practitioner of Seaborough, did not immediately 
offer an opinion; medical men of any eminence 
think a long time before speaking. Then Dr. 
Hunter said, “There is no cause for apprehen- 
sion; these intermittent periods of semicon- 
scious suffering will pass away. At present it is 
mere speculation to prophesy, but I think I may 
assure you that the issue will be favorable to the 
patient. To my mind her constitution is too frag- 
ile for any arduous exertion; perfect rest, abso- 
lute quietness, exclusion of irritants, such as 
tobacco smoke and oranges, which recall by pun- 
gency of their scent the atmosphere of the circus. 
A little brandy and water now, and some warmed 
milk later on, and the mixture that I will send to 
be taken about every three hours, and you will, by 
this time to-morrow evening, see a remarkable 
change for the better.” 

Fortunately nothing very serious had occurred, 
as Dr. Hunter knew perfectly well, merely a dizzi- 
ness, faintness, and the shock to the system, con- 
sequent upon her fall; so, as the doctor said, rest 
and quiet, and the kind nursing of her new friends, 
would, all being well, go far toward restoring her 
to health. 

In the morning Mr. and Mrs. Ringdom paid an 
early visit to their pupil, as they described her. 
Mr. Elsynge received them in the breakfast-room, 
and while Mrs. Ringdom accompanied the house- 
keeper to the bedside, an interesting transaction 
occurred down stairs. It arose in this way: The 
circus proprietor was attracted by the resplen- 
dent testimonial, with its massive horses in silver, 
and gentlemen of the chase in silver, the um- 
brageous silver foliage, and rippling stream over 
rocks of silver, and being a disciple of effect, was 
so struck by the tout ensemble of the entire ar- 
rangement, that he stood before it speechless, 
hands on hips, head first on one side and then on 
the other, and at last exclaimed, to the exceeding- 
ly amused owner, “ This is a tableau of magnifi- 
cence, Sir! A—tableau—of—magnificence !” 

“Yes, it’s a handsome piece, isn’t it? Cost a 
lot of money, I believe.” 

“That I know it did: never saw any thing that 
took my fancy as this does.” This Mr. Ringdom 
said with genuine sincerity, and since it was more 
horse than harp, it was very likely to be a pre- 
eminent attraction to his fancy. 

And now an idea, bright as the testimonial, 
flashed upon the heir to Froggypond. With his 
accustomed coolness and indifference to conse- 
quences he seized his opportunity and said, 

‘“‘T will treat you with open-hearted candor, 
Mr. Ringdom, and submit an exchange. I’ve tak- 
en a strong fancy to your pretty pupil, you’ve tak- 
ena strong fancy to my piece of plate. If youare 
content to leave her with me for good, she shall 
be well and honorably cared for, and you are wel- 
come to yonder specimen of the silversmith’s ar- 
tistic workmanship.” Having said which, the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


speaker sauntered indolently to the window, and 
poked at a gold-fish with his richly chased pencil- 
case. 

Mr. Ringdom thought this one of those gold and 
silver jests gentlemen in society are addicted to 
when the humor takes them, and he remarked, 
“T think I should have the best of the exchange, 
Sir.” 

“Never mind; that’s my look-out. If you’re 
agreeable, say so, and sit down at the table and 
write out the transfer. I will send my servant 
round to your place for the agreement, or indent- 
ures, or whatever else binds this poor child to 
the life which, according to learned medical opin- 
ion, she is any thing but fitted for, and which she 
cordially hates, as | can gather from the painful 
moaning when she is unconscious.” 

Mr. Ringdom deliberated. He had no doubt 
whatever that she would escape at the first op- 
portunity ; he knew better than Mr. Elsynge how 
cordially she hated the life, and there was truth 
in the remark concerning her strength. Still, it 
is probable Mr. James Ringdom would never have 
yielded but for that glittering and costly exchange. 

“Done!” he said, and sat down at the table and 
wrote out the contract. Mr. Elsynge, the more 
unmoved of the two, was nevertheless hugely de- 
lighted to have disposed of the testimonial to such 
profitable account, and his risible faculties were 
in a state of elation when he thought of what 
would be said by ‘our dear friend Sticky,” and 
the dear friends of that dear friend. ‘They'll 
never invite me to wear the chain of office any 
more,” thought the heir, with grim satisfaction. 

Cross-purposes still. Here, in one part of the 
land, the Minister is pleading for this little mor- 
tal’s future, while in another she is bartered for 
a piece of plate, and taken under the protection 
of a wealthy and, as it fortunately happened, hon- 
orablegentleman. Whata tapestry islife! How 
interwoven the dark with the light! Thus far 
there was more of dark than light in this poor 
child’s brief story, and a darkness made up of so 
much misery and grief as is not often endured in 
a young life; yet we are told that from disease 
the pearl is formed, and from the earth ariseth 
the lily. Some of the poems of the world have 
stood in calm, sweet power, no matter if without 
other poems to support and carry them onward 
with the help of companionship ; there are living 
poems which neither time nor man, cross-pur- 
poses nor thwarted hopes, have any power to spoil. 
The plaintiveness of a soul sighing itself forth 
in music never was and never will be disregarded 
for all time: the song and sigh are twined a while, 
but not for long. 

And what now will become of ‘‘ Walter’s” calm 
longing for union with her own? And what of 
the musings and dreamy ideals? She has had 
visions of valleys bathed in golden sunlight, and 
purple heights rising from clear water winding 
amidst the flowers as though to tie them with a sil- 
_ ver thread into clustering groups; she has dream- 
ed of a life passed in some blissful sphere where 
hardship and persecution are unknown; dream- 
ed that she would one day discover that peace- 
ful state. But the times are hard with her now; 
she is moaning with pain, blanched are her cheeks, 
her little mouth is more encircled with lilies than 
roses, and she has dread recollections of the late 
sorrowful time with her hard task-masters when 
her great mournful eyes dwelt thoughtfully on 


167 


the tanned ring: that, and the faces of those about 
her, brown and unlovely ; much as may some fair 
Israelitish girl of old have gazed wearily upon the 
tawny sand, when— 


‘Tt bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, — 
Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers. 
The brown old Pharaohs.” 


Yet even as in Spain you hear children of the vine- 
yards singing while they toil, hear bursts of song 
from out the groves upon the hills, until in the 
cool of even-tide the beautiful slopes are lyrical 
and resonant, and the passing traveller calls it 
the land of minstrelsy, so this little one’s heart 
sang to her hard lot, and encouraged flagging hope, 
while her fancy had hung the dark days with pic- 
tures which cheered many a saddened hour. 

Like a poem her life had once flashed into an 
hour’s splendor, and had as quickly paled; there 
were brilliant glimmerings of hope for a little while, 
when it really seemed as if the intricate toils of 
her misfortunes were about to be broken through ; 
but this accident appeared to have upset every 
thing, and to have revived all her perilous pros- 
pects. 

Had Elmore Elsynge been hewn from the 
hardest of marbles, or cast in the most enduring 
of bronzes, he could scarcely have resisted the 
plaintive loveliness of this child. If he had ad- 
mired her amidst late surroundings, he thought 
far more admiringly of her in helpless and touch- 
ing dependence now upon himself. It was an 
exquisite feeling brought along with it. “Ifany 
thing in the world would make a good man of 
me, it is this. I will be a true gentleman and 
friend to her in every thought and word and 
deed.” And herein Elmore Elsynge, Esq., proved, 
or promised to prove more than ever before, the 
legitimacy of his claim to the regard of his fel- 
lows on civil, moral, and intellectual grounds. . 

The course of our allegory presents a mosaic 
of singular contrasts, of widely opposite natures 
and fortunes; but this thwarting of the Minis- 
ter’s good schemes—Lena eloped with the “ fast- 
looking young man,” and ‘“ Walter” passed over 
to this gentleman of sport and pastime—would 
seem to be specimens of those freaks of destiny 
which do sometimes unaccountably controvert the 
best of purposes. “When in doubt, win the 
trick,” says Hoyle; and without defending the 
course adopted by Mr. Elsynge, it may, at least, 
be attributed to the impetuous and impulsive de- 
cision that brooks no deliberation over a project. 
He was accustomed to instant resolution, and rare- 
ly hesitated in fulfilling his plans. With master- 
strokes a situation may be touched off in a few 
lines; leagues of landscape dwell in a poet’s 
sentence; the acme of living, according to Mr. 
Elsynge’s views, consisted in condensation and 
immediateness; the trouble of a pause, the worry 
of a wait, the weakness of indecision were all con- 
trary to his ethics and opposed to his principles. 
“Lessons are in diamonds, which the more close- 
ly cut the more varied and brilliant are their 
phasis,” Mr. Elsynge’s emotions would never be 
aroused by the cunning charm of elegant utter- 
ance, but they were fully exercised by the poetry 
and pathos of this bird-like creature, with wings 
pinioned. . 

Mr. Elsynge was no lover of the luxurious 
creations of the French poets, stealing upon one 
like some gorgeous Watteau fantasie of by-gone 


168 


days; nor of the bold and pleasant idyls of the | 


German, laden with legend, and tuned to tradition ; 
nor of the golden conceptions of the Italians, 
sumptuous with sun and fragrant of vineyards: 
it was some such Saxon poem as breaks upon one 
with flashes of sunshine in summer lanes, flushed 
with flowers, sweet with winds of woodland ways, 


and musical with trilling of birds, with humming | 


of insects, with glad laughter of cotters’ children. 
Moreover, he was to be captivated with stronger 
stuff than rose leaves, and bound with other fet- 
ters than blonde and brown threads of sheaved 
tresses. The perfume of his life was not the dis- 
tilled essence of the boudoir, but the fresh, cool 
aroma of seas, the incense of garden reaches, the 
low bloom hovering in corridors of the dragon- 
fly among the rush, the fragrance of dead forest 
leaves; and had he come upon some beautiful 
way-side child looking up at his mare with half- 
timid, half-wild admiration, he would have taken 
her up beside him for a canter over the heath, 
quite unruffled by any trouble of considering the 
thing beforehand, and all undisturbed as to the 
opinion of Uriah Sticky and his class, And this 
pretty wanderer and wayfarer— 


“Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on 
the cheek,” 


charmed him as he had never been charmed be- 
fore; she seemed to fill a vacancy long felt in his 
life, and to hold forth promise of companionship 
as freshly new as it was innocent. 


ee 


CHAPTER XL. 
THE MINISTER’S GOOD WORK. 


Mr. Gariann’s office of mediator and peace- 
maker did not stop with the good work done in 
Yorkshire ; he was quite aware one must adjust 
both sides to produce uniformity, and. immediate- 
ly after leaving Cheffinger Abbey, he returned, as 
he promised, to Sleperton. Great were his morti- 
fication and sorrow upon hearing what had be- 
fallen ‘‘ Walter,” and to discover Lena had been 
taken away; it seemed to upset every thing, and 
counteract the efforts so perseveringly made with 
the hope of uniting the scattered family. Things 
often do wear this irritating and unhealthy-look- 
ing aspect, when, after all, they are but working 
in perplexity and shadow for good. He did not 
stop to be discouraged, but set to work. Noth- 
ing was to be gleaned from Mrs. Vincent beyond 
the comment, in her own very. charming manner, 
that Lena would, she feared, come to some bad 
end. That young lady having certainly been 
taken off to a distance, and, as he believed, to 
Yorkshire, he turned his attention to the one re- 
maining, taking Lady Helen into his confidence, 
and with every delicacy and tenderness disclos- 
ing that which moved the haughty lady to softer 
feeling and quivering sensibility, rendering her 
almost human. But even then, true to her char- 
acter, she raised as an obstacle the life the child 
must have led in the unfortunate period pre- 
ceding the-accident. To take to her heart a lit- 
tle circus girl, albeit a lost daughter, was so ex- 
ceedingly out of the course of family and polite 
experience that her ladyship revolted at the no- 
tion; but the indefatigable Minister, who hated 
this principle above all, discoursed with such 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


sensible yet unoffending tact, and made so pow- 
erful an appeal to her feelings, that she consent- 
ed to accompany him to the mansion of the man 
of many virtues, there to see the poor little suf- 
ferer. Mr. Garland believed the sight of this 
pretty defenseless one would prove a more pow- 
erful argument than any thing he could say. El- 
more Hlsynge, Esq., received his distinguished 
visitors with affable ease. It was only the day 
before that Mrs. Elsynge had expressed a hope, 
when talking with her grandson, that the owner 
of the Grange at Hawkingdean, then staying in 
Sleperton, would, upon some pretext or other, 
pay them a visit. Mrs. Elsynge had heard of the 
old moat (she kept a record of all the ancient 
dwellings where ponds, moats, or stagnant water 
of any considerable extent existed), and conceived 
the idea that the frogs fattening in its luxuriant 
preserves must be of a finer order, and worth in- 
grafting upon her own superb stock. Thus Mr. 
Garland was received with especial favor, and 
Mr. Elsynge was thinking to himself how best to 
persuade him into a similar visit to Froggypond, 
when the Minister introduced Lady Lindon and 


opened his business, upon which the heir at once 


began to look grave. It was an attempt to steal 
a march upon the treasure his country men and 
women had placed in his possession, and by all 
the laws of the Medes and Persians relating to 
testimonials he did not see it. . 

The speaker proceeded with caution; he ex- 
plained satisfactorily, in confidence and as be- 
tween gentlemen, that this young lady was the 
daughter of Lord and Lady Lindon, and entered 
with minuteness into the incidents connected with 
the treachery of the woman with whom their 
child had been placed. He dwelt upon her lady- 
ship’s feelings, and left it to Mr. Elsynge’s gal- 
lantry and honor. Mr. Elsynge bluntly said he 


didn’t see that his honor had much to do with. 


it; but as his feelings were appealed to, Lady 
Lindon was at liberty to see her child, and as 
soon as She might be removed, to have her taken 
to the Manor-house. Mr. Elsynge did not ex- 
pose his annoyance; he accepted the inevitable 
with the grace usually displayed by gentlemen 
of his position, and summoned his housekeeper 
to accompany Lady Lindon up stairs. Mr. Gar- 
land took up a book at his elbow; it was the 
Frogs of Aristophanes. “A present to dear El- 
more, on his birthday, from his affectionate Grand- 
ma.” Mr. Elsynge, leaning against the door, ask- 
ed the visitor if he played billiards. No, he did 
not play billiards. How did he think the weath- 
er was looking? He thought the weather prom- 
ised very favorably. He believed Hawkingdean 
was an easy drive from Lewes; did Mr. Garland 
ever go to Lewes Races? No, Mr. Garland did 
not go to Lewes Races, At which point a neigh- 
bor made a morning call, to the great relief of 
Mr. Elsynge. A light luncheon was served, the 
Minister taking a glass of Burgundy with much 
pleasure, for he was exhausted; he did not be- 
come impatient—he believed an affecting inter- 
view was taking place above—but he became 
weary of the conversation of the two gentlemen 
upon horses, dogs, matches, engagements, and 
sport generally, then upon French actresses, Ital- 
ian singers, Spanish dancers, and other foreign 
matter. 

And up stairs the stately lady was overcome 


by that sweet, patient face, engraved upon her . 


' 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


heart from often looking at the picture where it 
was copied with exquisite truth to life. Affected 
to tears at thus meeting her little one lost for so 
long, she could but kneel by the bed, her white 
hand trifling with those short boy-curls, her 
diamonds sparkling through the net-work of 
blonde silk ; so different to the cold, repelling, 
and imperious lady-mother in the long ago of 
dreamy memory; so different, that ‘“ Walter” 
rested blissfully, almost afraid to break the spell 


169 


and was unwilling to leave her, and later on in 
her chamber at the Manor-house realized Madame 
De Staél’s words, “‘Oh, what would become of a 
mother, trembling for the life of her child, if it 
were not for prayer!” In the solemn night-time 
the thought of that patient face kept her com- 
pany, and she saw her child still, chaste with the 
shapely symmetry of one that lives in marble, 
with that light on the brow that is born of the 
soul. Can any interpret the difficult and beauti- 


“HER WHITE HAND TRIFLING WITH THOSE SHORT BOY-CURLS.’’ 


and bring back the haughty empress of her ear- 
lier years. At last she timidly asked, ‘“ And you 
are really my own dear mamma? And you are 
going to love me, and take me to live with you ? 
Tellme so; it makes me feel well and most happy.” 

“Tt is true, my dear, as soon as it may please 
God to make you well, when the removal will not 
harm you.” 

Then, very content, the little one smiled, think- 
ing how soon she would get well. But Lady Lin- 
don was seriously alarmed for her restored one, 


ful tenderness which is a blended rhythm of love 
and regret? Devotion is blazoned on the shield 
of history, and heroism lives upon its page, but 
who chronicles regret or takes measure of re- 
morse? The bard would harp forever over he- 
roics and lovers, but regret hath no time, and its 
resonance is but a weary echo. What trowvére 
hath ever sung the lyric of a love clasped in a 
fixed regret? There is love that suffers and is 
strong, that esteems coronets and crowns as toys, 
that lives and dies its own monument, God and 


170 


the angels its witness ; and there is love that is 
not denying, that is haughtily cold, fed of the 
ashes of some grim past, the ideal of desolate sov- 
ereignty. And when this sensitive lady thought 
of that daughter lying in the house of a stranger 
who had paid a price for her ransom from bond- 
age— 

‘* With childhood’s starry graces lingering yet 

I’ the rosy orient of young womanhood ; 


And eyes like woodland violets newly wet; 
And lips that left their meaning in her blood !” 


she truly realized the bitterness of a great. hu- 
miliation, Holding up the light the better to 
look upon the portrait in her chamber, it seemed 
that she detected greater loveliness than she had 
ever done before; that glimpse of the face in 
life lent soft toning, and recollection weaving its 
charm about this picture, she told herself never 
such beauty had met her gaze before. So she 
grew to be proud of it, and to be proud of it was 
a distinct advance on her favor. That too high- 
ly strung instrument, her heart, was vibrating, a 
sweeter melody awaking from slumber on its 
strings; she was trembling and surely womanly. 
She placed the light down before the picture 
among cristalleries of Clichy and Baccarat, and 
she went to the table, where those simple treas- 
ures, brought to her of old by tiny hands, were 
more silently eloquent than ever, and she was 


lost in thought; back to a time when a vision |’ 


now and then crossed her fancy of what might 
be—a handsome, dark-eyed son, with wild curls 
clustered where she would long in future days to 
see the circle of laurel, ancient wisdom and the 
undying poetry of Athens his honor and delight. 
It had passed, and she had not taken to the girl 
instead ; her proud desire was thwarted, and she 
never forgot; but now the dreamy, still-faced 
girl, with the pensive light in her large eyes, and 
quiet calm on the brow where a glory seemed to 
fall through the pale golden hair, this girl bade 
fair to woo infinite tenderness, win great love. 
Lady Lindon, like others with whom the child 
came in contact, could not remain insensible to 
that nameless charm which won the interest and 
sympathy of all. 

Conflicting emotions were certainly breaking 
down that barrier of cold and proud exclusive- 
ness which she had raised between herself and 
others. The communication made by Mr. Gar- 
land moved her as nothing had ever done before. 
To realize herself in company with her children 
—no longer alone—with something to live for— 
possibly loved, although she doubted much wheth- 
er ever forgiven—all this presented such strange 
and unthought-of possibilities, and was so con- 
summate a fulfillment of the yearning experienced 
throughout, that she was shaken as women are 
when confronted by tremendous and imminent 
issues for good or for bad. This was for good; 
undeserving, guilty but penitent, she was yet to 
be made happy, and the consciousness of this 
helped to subdue her defiant reserve. It was no 
sudden change: the breaking up of ice is a grad- 
ual process ; and so it was with this woman lately 
so strong, Roman-voiced, stately, proud. When 
majestic and powerful, one could not approach 
nearer than the lowest. step of her dais, dazzled 
by the glitter of her gems and great flood of gold, 
looking in vain for one little point of tender blue 
for relief from the blaze of splendor—all the an- 
guish of unrelieved color, the clash of a might of 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


music, and not one small cool pearl, one soft low 
note. Now itis different; the blue and the pear! 
the lower note, and a broken pride that is a loftier 
grace. Already meditation has become a happi- 


ness; 
“Thoughts that poets fling upon 
The strand of life, as drift-weed after storms,” 


are grouping and gathering together beautifully. 
Anon her soul will revel in those quiet yet intense 
joys of motherhood, in the true perfection of which 
the isolation through pride becomes impossible. 
The splendor of her house palls upon her now, 
so do aspects change. It is gorgeous with cun- 
ning of rare color, and grand with the glow of 
great lands of the East, but she almost sighs for 
more simplicity, and some quieter hues, shadowy 
and calm. Our inner self is so in or out of har- 
mony with its surroundings, the thrilled soul is 
influenced instantly by color, or its absence, to 
agitate and wound or to depress. The era of the 
cactus had passed, the time had come when 


‘“‘Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder-rose 
In a great stillness dropp’d, and ever dropp’d, 
Her wealth about her feet.” 


- 


po en 


CHAPTER XLI. 
THE MAJESTY OF FORGIVENESS. 


Wuite the train of incidents described was 
passing in one place, equally as interesting an 
understanding was being brought about else- 
where. Willie Arden, upon arriving at home 
with his precious charge, accompanied by her 
faithful maid, although strongly tempted to in- 
vite her to be the guest of his father, was yet so 
nice upon points of etiquette that he preferred to 
take her on at once to St. Aubyn. They reached 
the House upon the Cliff not long after the de- _ 
parture of the Minister, and found her guardian, 
if not exactly prepared for the meeting, less ob- 
durate. The return, in fact, was well-timed; had 
it been left until the morning, as Mr. Willie was 
at first tempted, events might have resulted dif- 
ferently. The recluse was pleased to see good 
Martha Saxe in attendance, and to know the un- 
broken journey had been taken straight to him- 
self. And had not views, possibilities, and pas- 
sions been forcibly turned from their still, deep 
channel! Ay, she might come back now and 
welcome. It would afford opportunity for the 
performance of that upon which the mediator 
had so strongly and, as it seemed to his lordship, 
so mercilessly set his heart. Lady Lindon 
yearned for the recovery of her children, and to 
be told by his own lips that she was forgiven ; 
she should be told so, and the pledge should be 
his taking her child, and himself uniting them. 
“My ancestors could not have done more,” he 


/murmured; then added, bitterly, ‘and forgetful 


of the past and of myself, Helen and Lena will 
be happy, very happy.” But he did not suffi- 
ciently fathom the nature of either: they would 
not forget. 

But oh, he was not half cured yet; the sight 
of her recalled so much, revived such happy 
memories. Time might tone down the rebellion, 
would do so, but while it lasted he suffered. Yet 
he did not fail in courtesy, and with a grace sin- 
gularly his own thanked the young man kindly. 
If any thing could make up to him for any 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


aggrieved feeling he might harbor, it should have 
been the child’s fervor of love and gratitude upon 
being received again. Lena was indeed joyous 
beyond measure, and, as she said to him, had 
come back loving him as never before. That 
slightly clouded the young man’s brow, and did 
not lift any particular cloud from St. Aubyn’s, 
but he could not help feeling the sincerity that 
prompted the assurance, and there is much in 
sincerity even under the most untoward circum- 
stances. 

“T shall be pleased if you will remain our 
guest this evening, Mr. Arden.” 

- How magnanimous he could be now that the 
splendid illusion had vanished, and that to which 
he had clung failed to sustain him! 

His nature was not like the common natures 
of the world; isolation had fostered the idealism 
of the love that had atoned for the terrible grief 
of earlier years, and the passion had been one 
for which there is no measurement. And now 
the loss was. so utter, so tremendous in its com- 
plete destruction and shattering of the tender 
fragile fabric, he could dispassionately extend 
hospitality to the young man who had in that 
happy past caused him many a pang, could calm- 
ly anticipate the double anguish of an interview 
with his wife, and the yielding to her of this long 
priceless treasure. 

And if an evening’s unalloyed pleasure was a 
reward for constancy in memory and chivalry in 
conduct, then was Willie Arden abundantly re- 
warded, for he passed, as he told himself when 
looking in the toilet-glass afterward, the very 
happiest evening of his life. Miss Lena’s ad- 
ventures, while sobering her a little, and inducing 
a thoughtfulness that sat very charmingly, had 
not despoiled her of those innocent, guileless, 
kitten-like ways and movements that were of 
themselves so fresh and attractive; and while 
every old fascination was thus brought up before 
St. Aubyn with a vividness that blanched his 
cheek by its agony, it, on the other hand, flushed 
-the cheek of Willie Arden with the warmest glow 
delight ever lends. It was an evening both he 
and the girl looked back upon: a link connect- 
ing the dawn of love with its meridian. 

A few nights after this—time of the border-line 
between spring and summer—when the world was 
fresh with renewed beauty, and the bloom was 
vivid with an outburst of delicate color and sweet 
with reviving clouds of delicate fragrance; on an 
evening toward the end. of May, warm, balmy, 
odorous, the country seeming to welcome unto 
herself by every blandishment and wooing charm, 
pleasing to the several senses, the land outspread 
with an array impressive to the dullest soul— 
singing birds, flowering plants, elegant foliage, an 
aroma perceptible at no other season of the year ; 
Clear, dazzling, blue and white above; gambol- 
ling, leaping, skipping, frisking of animals and 
children; soft music and song, and tender min- 
strelsy every where; graceful play of insects in 
the mellow air; slant beams of gold touching up 
the old masonry of the Manor-house until it re- 
sembled some cunning painting, the last flood of 
glorious light bathing all the garden until it pre- 
sented a Watteau-like surrounding to the man- 
sion, and on the quaint, red-bricked village; 
flowers every where, and the village green new 
carpeted with a brighter turf, whereon stood 


171 


ing the fair scene with mingled feelings of pain 
and gladness. With him Lena, and as the sun- 
beams fell upon her blown and careless hair, and 
the ruby tint in the sky seemed to centre in a 
glow upon her cheek, he, looking upon her and 
upon the spring-time spectacle, was moved with 
emotion, and, taking her hand, walked more 
quickly toward his home, 

A man came from among the’trees, near the 
house; it was Reuben Smith, the bailiff. He re- 
moved his hat and stood with profound respect 
before his lordship. 

‘““Good-evening, Master Smith; I am glad to find 
you looking well, and the old place seems home- 
like after all.” 

“‘My duty to your lordship, and thank ye, I’m 
well an’ hearty; and the place ain’t changed this 
ten year, as you see. I’ve done by you as though 
to give account at any minute you might come 
home. Some o’ th’ neighbors is contrary, and 
the mill ain’t what it was. If there’s corn there’s 
no wind, and if there’s wind there’s no corn, and 
it’s hard grinding a livin’ out of it all; but, thanks 
to your lordship; Pve had the farms to look to, 
and it’s kept things going somehow or other.” 

“ And the tenants—all well, I hope?” 

“ All on ’em, not one have ailed a day sin’ your 
lordship’s bin gone.” 

“T am glad to hear it. Health, Master Smith 
(next to peace of mind), is the greatest of all 
blessings.” 

“Grist to the mill, some says, but I don’t know 
but your lordship is right! Very doubtful 
whether the peace o’ mind will come to any body 
in this world, though!’ Reuben moodily went on 
his way, while the Lord of the Manor stood by 
the great gates looking back on the village. One 
and another of the cottagers standing by their 
garden railing looked wonderingly across the 
Green, hardly certain whether their eyes deceived 
them, or whether it was indeed the long-absent 
lord; and from one and another the strange news 
spread, and they thought the world was approach- 
ing its end surely, wonders were so many. 

He passed through the great gates into the 
garden, and they saw no more of him that evening. 

He made no commotion by knocking at doors 
and ringing bells, but walked in quietly, unan- 
nounced. He knew well the apartment which was . 
wont to be the favorite with his wife, and, leay- 
ing Lena in the library, went to it with a firmness 
and heroism full of dignity. She was there, in 
the midst of her barbaric splendor, imperial as of 
old, girt strangely with subtle color, low upon 
luxuriant cushions—a long stretch of the skins of 
mighty beasts; broad columns flanked with mal- 
achite, chased and locked with gold. Lion basins, 
Pompeian, bronze, and gold, filled with scented wa- 
ters or beautiful flowers ; tawny magnificence that 
might have been the glory of enchanted halls of 


‘the Libyan desert; carven plinths where the lotus 


—emblem of beauty—seemed the presiding floral 
symbol whether in wood or stone; here and there 
curious characters Oriental, flashing some snatch 
from Eastern poems, talismanic, mystic as are 
those on the reputed cimeter of Solomon. . Gleam- 
ing birds secured by silver chains fluttered among 
pomegranate-trees growing in great jars by the 


window ; ornamental boxes glowing with the gold- 


en Persian lily; marble tanks wherein gold-fish, 
which she daintily sported with after the method 


the Lord of the Manor, returned and contemplat- | of the Empress of Jehan-Guire, who encircled 


172 A MODERN MINISTER. 


her favorites with fillets of gold. Suspended from 
the ceiling were weighty curtains of snowy velvet, 
lined with an exquisite ruby silk, looped by thick 
cord of gold; at intervals were long white tassels, 
seen but in the Indies, made of the hair taken 
from the tails of white oxen in Scinde; to each 
tassel was attached a tinkling bell of gold, and 
the fluttering of the birds or the soft air coming 
from the garden through the open window kept 
these in continual motion. Upon pedestals were 
contrivances of amber, innocent conceits deftly 
shaped by swarthy beauties, who in their land 
sing that amber is a concretion of the tears of 
birds; alabaster flagons gorgeous with the blood- 
red amaranth, in line, at intervals, so placed as to 
relieve the tawny overweight of brown and yel- 
low splendor; lower than these, and circling them, 
in symmetrical alabaster vases, were Cashmere 
roses of astonishing color and rare odor; over the 
floor was outspread a dense purple thick pile car- 
pet; at uniform distances were snowy rugs, every 
rug being bordered with massive fringe of gold 
and lined with amber silk. A circular richly 
chased ewer of colored marble was stationed in 
the centre of the apartment, and was a receptacle 
for the lotus, whose red blossom seemed to sov- 
ereign the rivalry around; lower than this and 
encircling it were lesser ewers of corresponding 
design, wherein the blue lotus lent much-need- 
ed relief; lower yet than these, lying upon the 
clear water of a white marble bath surrounding 
the whole, there were blue water- lilies; their 
grateful hue in conjunction with the pellucid 
depth assisted the relief. Drinking at this pool 
was a pet goat of Tibet, its collar incrusted with 
gems; by its side was a pile of purple cushions ; 
upon them reclined a girl of surprising loveliness, 
who attracted his lordship’s attention immediate- 
ly. A book, a portfolio of engravings, a lute and 
mandolin, and fanciful needle-work were around 
her, and a truly pretty picture with this romantic 
surrounding was presented. Lady Lindon arose 
with much sad majesty and a deadly calmness 
that moved him to the soul. Mr. Garland had in 
some degree prepared her for this; but all the 
preparation in the world would not nerve her for 
thus looking upon his face, so worn, so handsome 
still, so livid with agony of the moment. He took 
her hands with a kind, forgiving, considerate 
manner that assured her of his desire to convey 
how completely he absolved her. Wistfully look- 
ing into his grand face ; courting the eyes whose 
eloquence she had never cared to fathom—for the 
glance of pardon that might perchance give prom- 
ise of a full forgiveness ; hanging, as it were, upon 
the very grasp of the hands holding hers during 
that first firm, unshaken greeting; seeming to live 
ages in the brief suspense between that move- 
ment and the word; gleaming with her embroid- 
ery of topaz, gems, and gold; queen-like in rai- 
ment of queens, haughty yet, but with it all, sad, 
yearning, quivering ; allowing herself to be slowly 
guided thence, walking as a queen might walk 
from her throne to some quiet chamber, where 
she would confront time and eternity and lay 
aside her majesty, becoming very woman in peni- 
tence and supreme humility. He could not talk 
amidst that splendor, but led her to the duskier 
room where her portrait, painted long since in 
the days of his belief, hung above the chimney- 
piece. 

“ A few unreserved words, Helen: there should 


be no witness to our understanding—reconcilia- 
tion if you will—save One who witnessed the so- 
lemnity of the compact and of my truth when I 
took you to be my wife.”” She bowed her head ; 
then, with faint utterance, said, 

“You use the word ‘reconciliation;’ it is your 
supreme pity which dictates its use. You know 
there is heinous crime and sin upon one side, and 
aggrieved honor, poisoned faith, upon the other. 
I shrink not from a plain statement of the posi- 


tion ; I have had plainly to state it so often to my-. 


self. No; reconciliation may follow. Now it is 
pardon.” 

‘“‘ And you are pardoned, Helen. 
posely to tell you so.” 


I come pur- 


The assurance confirmed the hope his generous. 


clasp of the hand had thrilled her with. For a 
moment she became faint, and leaned trembling- 


ly to the wall, where once he too had rested in: 


sore pain; and he suffered now, she was so sadly 
beautiful, and he thought of what might have 
been. 
bers were quenched. 

He gently took her hand, leading her from that 
stricken posture, supporting her with firmness in 
which there was no shadow of trembling: so to 
a chair by the window; a tiny gleam of red from 
the setting sun stole upon its back, where the 
carved and painted shield of a long unsullied line 
seemed to blind him. His mother had often sat 


in that same place, talking of the glory of a spot- . 


less ancestry, of the crowning reward of all chiv- 
alry—a faithful consort, one to add fresh lustre 
to the honor, one to join the traditions of stateli- 
ness and grace. It caused him to wince with 
sharp and sudden pain, and for an instant he 
doubted the reality of his destiny, it seemed so 
cruel. 

He stood beside her; she leaned an elbow on 
the table and her brow fell to her shapely hand, 
and far outspread in line with her was the sweep 
of splendid robing. He would not look upon that 
queenliness, upon those fair proportions, saw alone 
the, sorrowful face downcast, the attitude of re- 
signed repentance; and he spoke very tenderly, 
so tenderly it set her quivering, and it seemed 


-harder to bear than reproaches. 
‘“‘One solemn moment of our lives, dear Helen, 


was when you left me, taking our child; another, 
now, when I return to you, bringing your child, 
not mine! There is no special God to try the 
causes and results of such solemn moments; it is 
the Providence who smiled upon our union and 
would have blessed it. In His grieved sight to- 
day I stand in the old home, very dear to me, 
Helen, and most for those who have gone before; 
but I shall revisit the hallowed spot no more. I 
have lived dead to you and to the world, and shall 
still live on, unknown, unknowing, only a bitter 
memory left to me: isolated; the fierce elements 
—kinder far than my race—for sole companion- 


ship; eyried as eagles eyrie—face to eternity, fed 
of the furious storms, aloof from all gentle things, - 


and enthroned above wreckage, turmoil, and the 
strife of tempests. I have come to look upon 


this face again once more [raising it, drenched | 


with her tears, so softly she could not resist]; so 
sad a face, it will haunt me there; but I brought 
some of our northern sunshine with me [here his 
voice trembled] to restore the smiles that were 
ever too few upon so royal a face; and with your 


children, longed-for, I am told, great happiness. 


But there was no love left; its very em- 


: 
’ 4 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


may yet be yours. My pardon I brought in per- 
son, that heard from my lips you might rest con- 
tent with, feeling its depth of sincere good-will. 
I have brought no ill-feeling here with me to-day, 
shall carry none hence; and if I know that you 
are happier for this, that life and love finds ali it 
needs in intercourse with those restored to you 
to-day, I shall be content. I may say, since I speak 
as one who will be heard no more, that greater 
content will be mine than if I knew you returned 
to society, whose sovereign you rightfully were, 
but are no longer. We shall live distinct, retired 
lives, but neither need be profitless; your chil- 
dren; my—my books, and art, and the what-not 
wherewith the lonely edify themselves. Ghosts 
of old memories will sometimes trouble me, but 
I will lay these, God helping me, in giving aid to 
those beaten, battered ones, bruised by storms and 
rocks. You and the delicate twain will think of 
me at such times, and I will think of you and 
them.” ba 

She could not bear much more, and when the 

proud sad tone had ceased and there was silence 
in the room, she was confronted by all he had 
said, rising stark and weird before her, remem- 
bered every word, vivid and fire-like, and her eyes 
were hot, tears dried; she could no longer weep, 
but with wistful agony looked up, taking his hand, 
feeling the palm throbbing like her own heart. 
+ “You shall not go from here,” she said. “ It 
is your home, not mine; and if you will permit it, 
my children shall accompany me to Darrell Ab- 
bey.” 

“No; remain where you are, or go whither you 
will; I shall return to the seclusion of my out-of- 
the-world retreat.” 

“Do you know that I was told you were dead ?” 
asked with pathetic quivering of the lip. 

“Yes; I told you myself. It is the truth.” 

She shook her head. ; 

“ And I mourned as widows mourn for dead 
husbands, loving them. I mourned as though 
there had been no shadow from the altar to the 
grave.” 

He only bowed ; the mourning for one’s death 
is so little consolation. 

“Let us join the girls,” he said, abruptly, for 
he was beginning to feel too much at home, and 
it would not do. 

They found them like doves, nestling and coo- 
ing away as though there were neither world nor 
mortal beyond their Pompeian chamber. Lena, 
used to petting goats with other creatures, divided 
her caresses between the gemmed beauty from 
Tibet and her sunny-curled half-sister. Life 
promised henceforth to be a happy dream for the 
pretty pair, and perhaps in the opinion of both 
they had been so very much awake of late they 
might well afford to dream a while. 

Lord Lindon’s emotion became more marked 
upon thus discovering so exquisite a picture. 
He went to the window; it was the twilight of 
distant woods in view beyond the garden—the 
dear old garden of his boyhood—it seemed soft- 
ened, while the lowered hues lent dim misty beau- 
ty, like some lone isle of fairy world revisited in 
dreams. The circle of lights beyond the Green 
just glimmered here and there between the trees. 
It was all so peaceful, and some bird’s vesper 
stole down on it with so sweet a benediction, he 
asked why man’s heart should be thus distracted 
when all the world seemed hushed and still. He 


173 


heard quick breathing beside him, and, looking 
round, saw his daughter, come with her winning 


confidence to tell of her heart’s long love for her 


lost papa; and he sat in the window, with her by 
him, looking on the young face, learning it. Beau- 
tiful language was writ thereon, such as suffering 
—which purity and delicacy refines, not makes 
gross—leaves the imprint of while adding one 
other charm. She stood at his knee, child-like 
and wooingly ; the action made his heart bleed, 
for it recalled the similar attitude by another, so 
often a fond delight; at the same time, some- 
how, this tended to heal, there was so grave a 
sweetness about it, such tender thought; it sank 
into his wounded heart, it bore full sympathy and 
feeling, it was fragrant with love treasured and 
growing up to the finest passion ever moving a 
human heart. Gently he wooed the story of her 
known to you, and heard how, while his flown 
bird was winging her flight from him, this poor 
toiler plodded on hopefully toward himself, cher- 
ishing a dim pictured ideal of him she sought, 
who, when found, was to be all in all to her, and 
it moved him mightily, it was so redolent of lov- 
ing simplicity and devotion. 

‘““ And you have been praying to find me some 
day ?” he asked, softly. ‘‘ Have looked to it as 
the end of all the wanderings ?” 

She gazed into his eyes lovingly, looked the 
answer with never a word, and he laid a hand 
lightly on the clustering boy-curls, idling thought- 
fully with them, they were so unlike the tresses 
with which he had been wont to play. And 
Lena, nestling by her mother, saw the action with 
singular emotion, but neither spoke. Her lady- 
ship was too unstrung by the recent ordeal to 
display the interest thrilling her; she remained 
very quiet a while until composed, straining to 
catch his low-breathed utterance, striving to in- 


-tercept but one fond glance bestowed upon his 


child, and her heart sank to witness the warmer 
attention she gave to him. There had been no 
such smiles as those for her; when the girl’s 
eyes had met her own, there had not shone upon 
her the rays of love making his face look lighter 
and happier than she had yet seen it, and Lady 
Lindon felt even grateful for that close nestling 
to her of the other. 

Confidingly as a boy or girl stands at one’s 
knee to unburden the heart of its sorrow she 
stood by him, piteous, beautiful. ‘“ Would I had 
known of this !” he said, much affected. ‘‘ How 
much we are indebted to our friend the Minister !” 

“Perhaps I might never have seen either you 
or mamma had it not been for him.” 

‘“‘ And now you are going to settle down quiet- 
ly and make up for all, in this old home ?” 

“No!” Her eyes were open wide with awak- 
ened enthusiasm at the new plan in view, and his 
heart was thrilled when she hurriedly continued, 
‘“‘Lena and I have been talking ; she has told me 
all of her story not told to me before, and cried 
when thinking how lonely you would be. ‘If 
papa will have you, dear, do you go back with 
him,’ she said to me; ‘try to console him for 
the loss of myself, and love him as I have loved 
him, still love him! Your sweet ways and gen- 
tleness will charm him, and in time—in time he 
will be as happy with you as he used to be with 
me; more so, for I was always unruly and a 
source of anxiety.’ ” 

The recluse turned his head away, his whole 


174 


frame was shaken, the solicitude of his late 
treasure and the recollection of old times affect- 
ed him terribly. But the thoughtfulness of Lena, 
extravagant as the project seemed to him, offered 
release from the utter loneliness his isolation en- 
tailed. And his heart was warming fast to this 
fragile, gentle creature, for whom he had so 
grieved when stolen from him in her early child- 
hood. In the sadly beautiful face that so im- 
pressed every one, he met the lineaments of a 
race distinguished for beauty; those sensitive 
nostrils almost breathed upon Lely’s canvases in 
the gallery, the eyes were the eyes of his stately 
mother living again to comfort him. 

“ But I may not take you from your mother’s 
care; think of her as well as of me.” 

“T am afraid I am thinking of myself most of 
all. I shall be happier with you. I have learn- 
ed to be very candid,” she added, with a faint 
smile; and then, with a burst of confidence, “ You 
ean not think how I dreaded lest, when I discov- 
ered my father, I should find also that another 
filled his heart. I had a sort of vague presenti- 
ment of this ; but now it seems there will yet be 
room for me—that I shall come in, after all.” 

“But how will you like a nest cradled high 
upon wild crags, with furious winds only for 
lullaby ?” 

“T have had none other,” 
ly, pale at the recollection. 

“ How like the monotony of so uneventful an 
existence ?” 

- “Tt is what I have longed for; quiet, and peace, 
and rest.” 

“No fresh faces to please and distract atten- 
tion ?” 

“ One—yours—is all-sufficient ; and I shall love 
it so.” 
dicating both the sincerity and how intensely it 
had been longed for. 

“Then you shall come.” And with his arm 
re-assuringly around her, he drew her close to 
him with the half-convulsive movement so signifi- 
cant of suffering. When near to that heart the 
child knew a joy the like of which she had never 
known before. 

Shades deepening without warned him it was 
time to depart if he would quit Seaborough by 
the evening train, and this for manifold reasons 
he preferred doing. 

“We have been engaging in an innocent com- 
pact,” he said, quietly, walking toward Lady Lin- 
don hand in hand with his daughter. 

“T can guess it,” she said, rising, “and my 
selfish feelings may not impair an arrangement 
that will be productive of much happiness.” 

“Thank yoa; our girl shall visit you and Lena 
at intervals.” And that concession she thought 
gracious and full of feeling. “If you can spare 
her now, it will save the necessity of my return- 
ing here; it is unwise to give the people food for 
talk.” This brought it very close; it seemed 
more than she could assent to, so soon to part 
with her, but she suppressed all outward emo- 
tion, and slightly bowed acquiescence, clinging to 
that promise of his. More spontaneous and un- 
fettered was the remonstrance of Lena and Hel- 
en; clasped hands, tearful eyes, and caresses told 
of how they saddened; and then Lena thought 
also of him, and checked the sorrow, cheerfully 
looking to their future meeting. 

With an adieu of calm, unruffled firmness, 


she answered, slow- 


This was said with passionate ardor, in- | 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


Lord Lindon took leave of her ladyship ; the fare- 
well of Lena was also gone through with, by 
which time the firmness had given way, and de- 
jected he quitted the well-loved home, looking 
back on it with moist eyes, and clasping hard the 
little hand in his. 

Then they set their faces northward. Com- 
panions these thenceforth. 

She had looked for this; it was what would 
have been had she not in earlier days met with 
that hard fate. So they comforted one another. 


a 


CHAPTER XLII. 
WITH VISORS DOWN. 


Tue Minister’s study: the Grange: Night. Mr. 
Garland writing ; his looks troubled and care-worn. 
A death-like stillness, all of the household having 
retired to rest. There is that sullen, mysterious 
hush which forebodes coming ill, when we are 
unable to account for the weighing down of the 
Spirits, and receive warning of imminent peril. 
But the Minister’s face had never been graver 
and more thoughtfully majestic than on this 
night, alone in his study, calm, composed, pre- 
pared for battle. It was known to him that he 
had the World, hitherto at his feet, arrayed 
against him in bitter warfare; the Flesh, for 
which he had so often sacrificed himself, had re- 
vealed itself his perjured ally; the Devil, with 
whom he had struggled until faint, was become 
the marshaller of forces of stupendous influ- 
ence, to blast his character and reputation. One 
against legions; no wonder he looked grave, 
was solemnly in earnest ! 

He knew himself to be toppling upon the ped- 
estal; that the lies set floating were in the cur- 
rent of common talk; the grand unsullied minis- 
try the garment for vulgar soiling; his lofty life 
the subject for ribald insult; his self-denying de- 
votion held up as hypocrisy. He knewit. Mem- 
bers leaving the church, absence of communi- 
cants, coolness of the office-bearers, turning away 
of friends, pointing of the public, significant re- 
moval of his books from the shop windows of the 
town, respectful intimation from his Brighton 
housekeeper of her wish to resign her duties, 
and cancelling of an engagement to lecture. Ay, 
it is soon done; yet thus far it was but rumor— 
a brave defiance, a challenge daring and heroic 
as any attributed to the classical champions of 
Christendom—and honor might be saved. He 
was not fighting in the dark; he knew his foes, 
and verily they were powerful, that threefold 
combination. But he was neither intimidated 
nor overwhelmed, for, after all, he felt that he 
had been waging war with Hydra from the be- 
ginning. A man of this stamp, who could enter 
so fearlessly upon the most open and exposed of 
all public relationships with a mighty and tena- 
cious purpose at heart, would not abandon the 
field, though scarred by many wounds, nor ever 
yield but with his life. 

“Tt has hitherto been a contest, Mr. Barnard, 
at a safe distance. You have brought it close; 
perhaps it is as well, we shall finish it the soon- 
er.” He spoke aloud, his- hand upon his brow, 
his face bowed low. The speech was answered. 
The time for which his enemy had waited had 
arrived. Having entered unheard, by way of 


- 
a Sn 
Pa 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


the moat and secret passage, he had been con- 
templating the Minister with folded arms, haugh- 
ty, determined. 

“The sooner—this night !” 

The Minister turned a degree colder. 
ing wearily up— 

“This is something fresh. Intrusion into my 
very house and private apartment.” 

“‘T have not the word ‘ Privacy’ written on my 
notes, Lionel Travers, where you are concerned. 
The intimacy between us is too delicate to admit 
of any such barrier.” 

“Nay, but God forbid there should be any in- 
timacy between us, Sir! Our paths lie distinct 
and wide apart.” 

Both were collected, and both were coldly 
courteous. 

“They cross to-night! Ive a little outstand- 
ing account, which, if you please, we’ll settle up.” 

Impatiently indicating a chair, the Minister laid 
down his pen with characteristic precision. “I 
am ready to hear any thing you have to say, Sir.” 

“ You probably imagined, until seeing me that 
day in the chemist’s shop, that I was convenient- 
ly absent in another hemisphere, or elsewhere ?” 

“T thought it more likely you were safely in the 
hands of the police.” 

Mr. Barnard bowed. ‘“ Disdainful as of old, 
Sir. Your clerical life has not sweetened your dis- 
position.” 

“Toward you, no! The minister is yet a man, 
and by his manhood loathes the villainous mis- 
creant now in his presence.” 

“ Steady does it, reverend Sir, or by jingo you'll 
make me speak my mind!” 

“Do so. If truthfully, it will be the first time 
in your life.” 

Mr. Barnard looked at his antagonist with lei- 
surely admiration. 

“You'll die fighting.” 

“T shall die at my post.” 

“ A defensive one just now, eh, Mr. Westley 
Garland ?” 

“ Always a defensive one; it is the stationary 
position of a minister of the Gospel.” 

“Or the minister of any thing else, I take it. 
I’ve been ina state of siege and defense all my life. 
_ But allow me to explain the purport of my trip to 
Hawkingdean. Business, Sir! I’m all business ! 
You have, no doubt, been surprised and gratified 
that there has been no attempt at interference 
with you in your present avocation? Don’t inter- 
rupt me; because you have, any man would. I 
credit you with the common feelings of humanity, 
notwithstanding your late exalted position: ob- 
serve the ‘late’—it exists no longer, or won’t to- 
morrow if we don’t come to terms, for your hold 
upon the ecclesiastici is ticklish, Sir, or I’m no mis- 
erable sinner. Your progress has been watched 
with keen interest by those of your friends who, 
standing aloof from you, have sympathized with 
your indefatigable perseverance in amassing treas- 
ure. Ido assure you upon this matter we are in 
accord. This is the business I have come upon, 
to negotiate with a man of substance, Sir—a man 
of substance. I sojourn at the leading hostelry 
of this charming village. To simplify matters, 
you will hand over to me and the firm I have the 
honor to represent all moneys standing to your 
account in the Brighton and London banks ; you 
will then be at liberty to accept a curacy under 
one of our estimable colonial Bishops, or—and 


Look- 


175 


this I commend to your notice in consequence of 
your success among the heathen at home—as a 
missionary. With your enterprise you would doa 
large amount of good among the blacks,” 

‘“‘T have heard you out, Sir—” 

“No; I have not finished yet, but pray go on 
with what you were about to say.” 

‘“‘T do not know where your rapacity will end.” 

“ 'With—your—all.” 

“TY should have thought the extent of my suf- 
ferings—the utter wreck of myself and home, the 
loss of every farthing, of honor, of my dear wife 
and child—would have satisfied even you.” 

‘‘ Excuse me; there you run on a false track. I 
am not despotic, nor of the school. The major- 
ity of persons, indeed, vote me an exceedingly 
pleasant person for a man of business; the im- 
pending transaction with yourself is purely a mat- 
ter of business.” 

““There is no transaction pending with me, Sir, 
nor is there likely to be. Your extortionate de- 
mand will be forgotten directly your odious pres- 
ence is withdrawn.” 

‘“‘* Hard words break no bones,’ as my grand- 
mother said to me when she gave me a severe 
thrashing after swearing at me for an hour, You 
are, of course, aware of the ugly things the good 
people are saying of you. I can’t tell whether 
true or false, but I do know human nature to be 
singularly frail. If, however, you’ve done all they 
say about you, all J can say is that you’re ay out- 
and-outer. Under these circumstances, a word I 
have it in my power to speak will settle Westley 
Garland, the sometime popular preacher, forever. 
I have but to declare that he has been living and 
preaching under an assumed name, and to expose 
the antecedents of this twofold person, in order to 
lead to his uncommonly rapid exit. It is on the 
card that I do this, failing your compliance with 
the delicate request before named. I rely upon 
your good sense to avert this contingency.” 

‘“‘ Which it will not, Sir. You are at liberty to 
publish any thing concerning myself that you 
please ; such threats carry no weight. Indeed, that 
you should threaten at all is a matter of perfect 
indifference. I believe the English people regard 
a man’s work before his name, and so long as he 
be known as Christian, that surname is sufficient 
warranty for their esteem. As to the rest, I am 
not sure but Lionel Travers will gain as many 
sympathizing friends as does his better self. 
Names are but husks, that drop off and grow 
again, renewing their little day according to the 
part we play. My reputation can be safely left 
to take care of itself; if worthy at all, slander will 
not hurt it.” 

How oppressively ‘silent the room seemed be- 
tween the intervals of their talking! 

“ Anticipating some such indifference to public 
opinion—a great mistake where a man holds the 
future in the hollow of his hand—I have taken 
steps to submit another argument, one that will 
carry greater weight. Your child is in my power, 
and in safe-keeping.” 

The countenance of the Minister was convulsed 
with pain, and for an instant he did not reply. 
Then he said, 

“T am-sorry for that, Noel Barnard.” 

“So am I; it’s the only one thing I am tender 
about. It was, however, a politic step, and she 
has been well cared for. A man must be con- 
siderably worse than Iam to harm one like her.” 


176 | A MODERN MINISTER. 


“Tthank you. Up to this time I have thought 
you entirely without pity ; but I suppose the acme 
of baseness is not yet exemplified.” 

“‘T should like you to know my lawyer. Should 
that worthy ever dissolve with me, he is specially 
retained for the Infernal Circuit. He’s a useful 
man at keeping a concern together—very. My 
lawyer will do himself the pleasure of waiting 


——————-——— 


SSS ce 


“‘T will introduce the laws of politeness to your 
notice now. You were once acquainted with a 
man named Beech, I believe?” 

The Minister’s eyes, scathing as the lightning, 
fixed his opponent. Barnard turned restlessly, 
then drew his chair closer to the writer’s table, 
and looked at the stern, handsome face curiously. 

‘A man of that name was once in my employ.” 


“HIS KEENLY GLITTERING EYES WERE ALL ABOUT HIM NOW. HE WAS AT BAY AT LAST.” 


wpon you any time you may appoint for transfer 
of the cash, when also Miss Travers shall be at 
your disposal.” 

‘““You are very considerate. If I understand 
you aright, Iam to beggar myself at your bid- 
ding to recover my child ?” 

‘‘ And preserve your good name in your pres- 
ent field of action.” 

“After which I am expected to quit the coun- 
try—in fact, leave you free to enjoy your spoil ?” 

“You put it with singular felicity, Sir; at the 
same time with a slight disregard for the laws of 
politeness,” 


‘¢ A closer union than that linked you, Noel Bar- 
nard ; you were fellow-convicts at Swan River!” 

The long, thin face of the other became of a 
ghastly hue. 

‘From whence you escaped, in company with 
your comrade—both branded felons!” 

He neither spoke nor moved; but, as though 
fascinated, his eyes never left the face of the 
Minister, who was sadly in earnest, and calm. No 
shadow of exultation crossed his brow. 

‘‘ Beech is dead. He died penitent; and I was 
happy to take his hand as I would that of a 
friend, not for the confidence made me on his 


i nd eis, 


A MODERN MINISTER. - 


death-bed, but because of that penitence which 
makes us all stand upon equal ground.” 

It was no news to Barnard that the man was 
dead. For his own safety’s sake he had decided 
that to be necessary long ago; but that the Min- 
ister should have been with him in his dying mo- 
ments so impressed the half gypsy with omen- 
like significance that he gloomily muttered, 

“Seems like fate, don’t it ?” 

“ Well, you are very likely to take that view of 
it; to me it demonstrates the inscrutable, retrib- 
utive judgment of God.” 

“Turning of the tables, eh, Lionel ?” 

His keenly glittering eyes were all about him 
now. He was at bay at last. 

“There is neither malice nor revenge in my 
heart. Out of the evil you wrought He brought 
forth good; for those who have suffered, very 
many have had cause to rejoice; for the pain in- 
flicted upon my poor wife and child, another be- 
sides yourself is culpable, and as he hopes for 
pardon and extenuation, so he now extenuates 
and pardons you. For the rest, you will restore 
every farthing of which you have wronged me, 
together with Eagle Hall, by consent of the own- 
er, which I am satisfied you will have no difficulty 
in gaining, accompanied by a document, signed 
by you, declaring upon oath in the presence of 
two witnesses, professional gentlemen of high 
standing, that I have been the victim of conspir- 
acy and fraud, and am innocent of all the misde- 
meanors imputed to me. You will cause my lit- 
tle girl to be brought to this house to-morrow. 
If the address of my wife is known to you, I 
require it at your hands. When this is all trans- 
acted, I will permit you to leave the country, safe 
and free to pursue your business in other lands, 
where, if conducted upon an honorable basis, 
there is no reason why you should not acquire a 
far larger fortune than you have ever succeeded 
in making by dishonest ability and accomplished 
villainy. You were commending our black breth- 
ren to my interest. I do not return the compli- 
ment, but I advise retirement to some continent 
where your genius wili have space to expand 
without injury to your fellow-creatures, and where 
character passes through transition stages with- 
out risk to others during the process.” 

Mr. Barnard heard the Minister to the end of 
his address; it was impossible to tell the effect 
of the arraignment, the judgment, or the sentence. 


he betrayed no emotion, nor, beyond an extra sal-’ 


lowness of complexion, evinced any feeling. The 
Minister was accustomed to taking the law into 
his own hands; he now did so without any hesi- 
- tation, and certainly without compunction. Jus- 
tice represented a great deal to him, mercy a 
great deal more. He would rather see this man, 
or a worse than this, leave the land unharmed, 
with the possible prospect of amending his ways 
and performing some worthier part, than consign 
him to the merciless rigor of inexorable law; in 
other words, Westley Garland was in the service 
of Christ, not Cesar. The source of his mercy 
was the source of his fearlessness, and in his 
struggle against sin he would overcome the World, 
subdue the Flesh, and send the Devil about his 
business. 

The accused for some time made no reply; his 
mind was busy with that period of his life recall- 
ed so abruptly, but which had flashed back to 
him with vivid outline. He saw again the man- 


Vou. u.—M 


177 


acled gang going forth, two and two, under the 
supervision of men armed with double-barrelled 
guns, who sat about on gates, or stumps, or 
clumps, all the time of the weary watch, while 
the convicts worked road-making, sometimes with 
mocking ridicule of their weaponed guards, al- 
ways with scowling, revengeful looks. No talk- 
ing was allowed between the convicts, but, while 
working, they acquired a Masonic language, and 
by sign conversed together unknown to their 
guards; sometimes, by practice of silent, move- 
less. lips, interchanging looks of terrible signifi- 
cance, more fraught with ominous meaning than 
very long discussions; a speech of life and death 
invariably. By such means he and his comrade 
had planned a rush, and with mighty speed they 
sprang from the plot where they worked, leaping 
the scrub with giant bounds, and crouching flat 
while the first volley rattled above them; then 
up, clearing whole ridges of sand, and falling 
alongside while a repeated volley scoured the 
space; then up again, fleet like the wind, crawl- 
ing behind the sheltering mallee while a third 
volley pursued them; then off for the open coun- 
try! Shouting of the followers becoming fainter, 
and finally ceasing; on for the barren level, miles 
and miles in extent, until the welcome shepherd’s 
hut is reached, when they are safe. The grazier 
possessing the run has various huts used by his 
shepherds, two to each hut; these being away 
the greater part of the day with their flocks, 
leave at the hut a man called the hut-keeper, who 
cooks for them and helps in various ways, and 
who is the most lonesome and wretched being on 
the face of the earth, and more often than not an 
escaped convict himself; anyway, he never fails 
to aid prisoners escaping; and when they are 
hiding by day in the bush, while the shepherds 
are away, bears to them provisions and drink, and 
furnishes them with coarse shirts and blouses in 
place of the convict garb marked with the red 
letters “P.S.,” meaning Perth Stockade. Should 
pursuit follow them close, they are hidden away 
in the hollow of the blue-gum tree, thousands of 
which are found in all directions, and whose 
trunks would.at one time have sheltered all Swan 
River Settlement. The timely help of the hut- 
man also extends to furnishing them with a billy 
and a pannikin for the carriage of their provis- 
ions and water, and, where he can spare it, a 
small hatchet, known thereasatomahawk. Thus 
accoutred, the escaped convict follows the coast 
by day, the tea-tree and mallee scrub affording 
covers and, when resting, shade; by night he 
takes to the road, when proportionately greater 
progress is made, the sand cliffs skirting the 
coast to some extent retarding it. Their great- 
est difficulty is in-the matter of water; it is a 
thirsty route of many hundreds of sandy, desert 
miles ; thus their journeying is timed, if possible, 
to camp each night by a pond (there called wa- 
ter-holes) or creek. Time is told by the South- 
ern Cross at night, this and the whole body of 
planets there appearing of resplendent brilliancy. 
Often has Barnard recalled those night-marches 
when the white magellanic clouds tantalized them 
with silver promise, and it.seemed as though the 
horrible pilgrimage never would be over; often 
has he heard in imagination the strange night 
noises that used to render the way fiendish even 
to one of his nerve—the curlew, screaming like 
some woman in a paroxysm of pain, a creature 


178 A MODERN MINISTER. 


never seen, but heard with a vengeance; the 
laughing-jackass, a bird like our kingfisher, of 
a grayish-brown, notorious for the most diabolic- 
al yell of hilarity known, the bird no one kills 
since it enjoys the reputation of destroying the 
snakes; the mopoke; an owl-like bird, with a 
note resembling that of a loud cuckoo in an 
echoing vault; and other odd sounds helping to 
make the nightly orchestra below the Southern 
Cross an uncommonly hideous one. 

There was a terrible distance to go before Ade- 
laide was reached. The encounters were few and 
far between; some poor wretch looking for work, 
with whom they unhesitatingly shared rations; a 
man searching for his horses astray in the bush; 
some shepherd tramping on for a fresh track ; or 
a drove of stock horses, without shoes, the breed 
trained for hunting cattle in the bush and upon 
the great plateau of grass land, with them a 
couple of rough drivers, pushing on for distant 
farms, who greeted the wayfarers with a jovial 
cheer natural to the Western Australian breeder: 
on their saddles before them were heavy hobbles 
—a strong iron instrument upon the handcuff 
principle, used for securing the horses, and which 
sent a cold thrill through the tramping com- 
rades, hot as was the way. Several times they 
came upon a camp of blacks, the males being 
away hunting, leaving the old men and the fe- 
males, called in that part “lubras,” who received 
them kindly. Occasionally a team of two bul- 
locks yoked to a dray lumbered along the road- 
way. If they approached a hut it was with cau- 
tion, and they never disclosed their business 
unless the “old lag” in charge made the sign 
known to them. Foot-sore and hungry they now 
possessed their liberty, and it atoned for all they 
suffered. Starve they could not while the spe- 
cies of cypress known as the wild cherry grew 
on the way, its refreshing green a delight to the 
eye, its taste and sustenance pleasant and invig- 
orating, and known from its poisonous fac-simile 
by the singularity of its stone growing outside ; 
while the great spreading box-tree shed its. man- 
na in their very path, which they mixed with 
wattle-gum, also plentiful, rolled into balls, stored 
in their pannikins, and ate when hungry. They 
also experienced the mortification of finding the 
apples — dazzling-looking fruit — which, when 
gathered, are only wood, setting Gypsy Noel, who 
had despoiled many an orchard in old England, 
swearing finely. 

Rivers were followed until they could cross on 
the sand, where, as is often the case, the bed 
was left dry under the severe drought. 

Diversion they had also: a kangaroo drove 
would appear, two great ones in front followed 
by all the others very much according to size, a 
procession of leaping eccentricity that tickled Mr. 
Barnard’s fancy immensely. The long lizard 
(called by the native the ’guana), speckled like 
the tree upon which it is found, amused them for 
hours. The lively insect known as the bull-dog 
likewise afforded some excitement; it is a long 
red ant, with a black head, and its sting is a mild 
edition of the wasp’s. Occasionally a great black 
snake would draw itself sluggishly across their 


path. Once Barnard was bitten, and his treat- 


ment thereof was characteristic of the man’s 
cool clinging to dear life: opening a clasp-knife, 
he cut out the bite, and in the notch filled gun- 
powder, then lighting a match, blew out the 


flame, placed the red end upon the powder, and 
with set teeth awaited the explosion which was 
to save his life. It is the common remedy in the 
West, and, of course, leaves the victim greatly 
exhausted; but tea and brandy, the favorite 
drink, and to be found in every hut, soon re. 
vives him. 

- It all came back to his mind while the Minis- 
ter was speaking, all that horrible time of escape, 
and he could recall the delight with which the 


muddy roads and fences, way-side public-houses’ 


and outlying farms, were reached, telling of Ad- 
elaide. And this Minister had it in his power to 
cause his return thither, or perchance to a more 
terrible place still—this man who had suffered 
agonies at his hands, whom he had beggared and 
defamed! True, he bade him simply make com- 
mon honorable restitution, mere ordinary fair 
reparation, and then go elsewhere and conduct 
his business upon an honest basis; but such 
clement, compassionate dealing was so foreign 
to Noel Barnard’s apprehension he failed to be- 
lieve in it, and judging his opponent’s principles 
by his own, had no doubt of its being a suse to 
obtain an admission of the tremendous fraud 
perpetrated upon Lionel Travers, and the sys- 
tematic attempt to defame the character of West- 
ley Garland, having gained which, with the res- 
titution of all, he would turn upon himself and 
make use of Beech’s confession to wreak a re- 
venge in full. “But no you don’t; I’ve not fin- 
ished with you yet, my friend!” 
to himself, he rose, and standing, with deadly re- 
straint upon any conflicting passions, he replied 
to the Minister’s more than earthly leniency with 
cold cynical irony: 

‘““So you propose my leaving your country, in 
which it seems to me there was just room for 
one of us to govern, but not both. Well, I 
shouldn’t break my heart over doing so, Mr. 
Westley Garland, for a more boggy, foggy, pes- 
tiferous potato plot does not exist. In the cities 
one is smoke-dried as a haddock, and in the coun- 
try one needs the constitution of a rhinoceros, 
It is termed by your Exeter Hall friends ‘a fa- 
vored land.’ I could amend that panegyric by 
pronouncing it to be suffering from overcrowd- 
ing, avariciousness, gluttony, vulgarity, supersti- 
tion, bad manners, blighted affection, and tea- 
drinking. 
monopoly, eaten up by immorality, and inhabited 
by old maids, doctors, publicans, and people sup- 
ported by charity. Falseness is upon the face 
of it, and every man-jack rotten to the core; the 
women are all faithless, and the children story- 
tellers; the laundresses are dishonest, and com- 


merce is a stark adulterator rampant wherever a 


line of bricks disfigures the landscape. For my 
part, with my tender conscience, I’d rather be the 
sovereign of the open and frank nomads, with- 
out tithe, tax, vote, vaccination, fires, explosion, 
smashes, colliery massacres, late hours, music- 
halls, social vice, tinselled virtue, potted «meats, 
and co-operative stores, than of a hundred such 
favored lands, if I was obliged to take with 
them all the hollowness and sham, artificiality 
and hypocrisy, which go to make up the glory 
here.” : 
Having thus asserted his warfare with the in- 
stitutions of civilization, the speaker, turning a 
more ghastly hue, and with a change of tone to 
resolute defiance, declared war to the knife with 


\ 


Saying which: 


I could assert that it is overrun with 


he 
4 
5 
: 
q 
; 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the calm, wearied-looking man, with whom he 
was now having a hand-to-hand encounter. 

“‘ Before leaving your ‘favored land,’ however, 
or your favored company, I'll trouble you for the 
Beech document, since you’ve introduced the 
question of documents. You who know what it 
is to feel uncomfortable with some such ticklish 
death-warrant in view will readily imagine I can 
not leave this place without it; you know me too 
well to doubt my meaning.” He had advanced 
a step nearer, the glare of a Cain in the cruel 
eyes, the teeth meeting with that ominous click 
which with Noel Barnard always meant mischief ; 
his hand was gripped murderously; his breath 
came short as that of a beast of prey crouching 
to spring upon the foe. Yes, Westley Garland 
knew the meaning, and experienced the awful 
feeling one so finely and delicately strung expe- 
riences when confronted by one who would take 
a life to secure future safety, His was not the 
sinew of an athlete; but old exercises at Oxford 
were by no means forgotten, and he would de- 
fend himself with as determined courage from 
the attack of the murderer as from that of the 
slanderer. He arose also, very pale, but collected. 

“The last time you threatened me, and indeed 
personally assaulted me, was in a dull Devon 
lane, with a burly coward at your back, and my 
escape from you and your persecutions was by 
what might have been a watery death; but now 
I no longer fear your violence or dread your in- 
trigues. I have extended a conditional pardon ; 
you refuse these conditions, and demand that I 
- should relinquish the evidence wherewith to-mor- 
row I will brand you the accursed thief and liar 
that you are! Now, beware, or by the Master I 
serve, I will lay you at my feet, and give your 
body to the moat you have used toward again 
effecting my ruin!” 

The half gypsy stood glaring upon this aroused 
lion with fierce disdain. The antagonist would 
have it settled, then, one way or the other? So 
be it! With an enraged spring and the grip of 
a giant he was upon fragile Lionel, who stagger- 
ed, but with fine skill shook off and parried the 
talon-like clutch of those iron fingers. The study 
table was knocked over, chairs were sent flying 
to the wall, the field thus gained afforded unin- 
terrupted space for the awful struggle where dear 
life was the end fought for. An unseemly con- 
tention, of solemn issues, in that place of quiet 
study and thought, but its owner had no dictum 
which countenanced tamely submitting to be mur- 
dered in one’s own harmless and inoffensive re- 
treat. In the same degree, Westley Garland would 
take particular care not to permit a repetition of 
this horrible breach of order. The combat raged 
fiercely, and, notwithstanding Barnard’s terrific 
onslaught, it was not altogether in his favor. 
Without miscaleulating his opponent’s strength, 
which was slender, he had not allowed for the 
mettle and force of a power inspired by just con- 
victions, by righteous indignation, by anger ap- 
proved and aided by Heaven. It was no strip- 
ling, no weak, spiritless man, but a being godlike 
and mighty for the time, with a grand wrath arm- 
ing him with a great defense. Once did the Min- 
ister, with an appalling effort, hurl his assailant 
from him and stand, livid and gasping, conqueror 
of the breathing-time. The enraged and thwart- 
ed schemer was upon him again, and the struggle 
continued. Even Westley Garland’s patience un- 


179 


der these conditions failed him, and strong pas- 
sion convulsed the usually composed control; 
and this exhausted the energy, his strength was 
far spent. With the final essay of a gladiator 
he threw his opponent, while at the same mo- 
ment Constance ran in, frightened at the disturb- 
ance, and she gazed with scarcely believing eyes 
at the spectacle of her friend in terrible perturba- 
tion, one knee upon the prostrate cause of the ex- 
traordinary commotion. Then suddenly all re- 
sentment left his soul, and saddened, regretful 
emotion took its place, her mute surprise and 
sweet countenance were so reproachful, He 
arose from the retributive attitude, saying calm- 
ly, “ Your punishment be in Higher hands; you 
are free to quit this place as you entered it. I 
give you sixteen hours to supply what I required 
of you. Should it not have arrived at my house 
in Brighton by one o’clock to-morrow, the confes- 
sion I hold will be placed in the hands of the po- 
lice.” 

Sullen, moody, yet with a certain haughty 
grace, Barnard drew himself up to his full height 
and strode to the door, where in the dusk, gloomy 
as some swart, vanquished Arab, with the desert 
of Ishmael before him, but imperious to the end, 
he stood facing them; and there was an awful 
look upon the face Constance could not witness, 
and turned away. 

“Your conditions shall be complied with, Lio- 
nel Travers, and we shall meet no more. A final 
word with my adieu: your wife has discovered 
you, and believes with others in your amoyr— 
ahem! present company prevents explanation ; 
enough that she lies dangerously ill in the vil- 
lage. Adieu. If we meet again, it will be in a 
warmer clime— business demands my instant 
presence in India.” 

And before the stricken and dismayed clergy- 
man could move a step or utter a word his old 
enemy had gone—to trouble him no more. But 
what a burden of disastrous communication he 
had left with them! It seemed for the moment 
to paralyze and benumb to unconsciousness, so 
bewildering was the complete significance. It 
was Constance with her tender and still action at 
this crisis that revived and re-assured. 

“Do not be overwhelmed,” she said. ‘Of course 
you are in error, and they have seized upon the 
one error to wreak their design for ill. I have 
no doubt whatever that this misfortune has been 
brought about by design; your presence of mind 
now will alone serve us. It will not do to hasten 
and explain all; such impulse, painful though you 
will find it to resist doing so, would be perilous in 
the extreme; neither may I go to her under these 
delicate circumstances, until she has learned how 
we are misjudged.” 

But then, that reality, her love, confronted poor 
Constance, and in confusion she ceased mid-way 
in her office of ministering one. 

“ Yes, you are right,” said the Minister, faintly, 
as coming out of a terrible dream; the events of 
the night had shattered him, before tried and very 
worn and weary. ‘We must use great care; I 
fear for the result.. We need some gentle help 
just now, one to go to her whose presence would 
not affright, whose message could not distress. 
A depth of tender tact and soft thoughtfulness is 
wanted such as I only know vourself and Lady 
Guilmere to possess, and her ladyship is unknown 
to our poor darling; no stranger may intrude 


180 A MODERN MINISTER. 


upon the sanctity of this great sorrow, exquisite 
though my friend’s delicacy may be.” 

“T think I can suggest a happy proposal, ad- 
mitting we can find little Ella, Let her undertake 
this angel’s mission; unless she has strangely 
altered, you could not have any one perform it 
better.” 

His face lighted up instantly, while he trembled 
at the near prospect of recovering his child. 

“Tf Barnard fulfills my stipulations, Ella will be 
restored to me to-morrow.” 

“Phen you have nothing to fear, and every 
thing to hope.” 

And when Constance had retired, when silence 
reigned and a calm that seemed death-like after 
that unseemly fray, the Minister could review at 
searching leisure the effect upon his fortunes of 
this encounter. Daylight would surely dawn, and 
the dark cloud so long hanging over him be ban- 
ished by the new light breaking with the morrow. 

Long did he sit musing over that final blow, the 
keenest his enemy had administered. He had 
dreaded above all things any such inopportune 
discovery regarding himself, but this full catas- 
trophe had never presented its dread semblance. 
His very retirement converted into a weapon for 
their destruction! Certainly this last of his en- 
emy’s machinations appeared indeed the most 
fiendish. 

One other matter caused Mr, Garland grave 
care—he had been thinking of this at the time of 
Barnard’s intrusion—the attitude taken by the 
public in the face of the slanders circulating. It 
caused him poignant sorrow that the knowledge 
of his character as judged by his work should 
not preclude any such falling away of confidence. 
He resolved to confront this public wavering, and 
read it a lesson greatly needed in modern times. 


Se 


CHAPTER XLII. 
THE LESSON READ TO A PEOPLE. 


SHovutp “The Natural History of Pew-Open- 
ers” ever be written, a gallery of their portraits 
ever be arranged, a lecture upon the species ever 
be delivered, then must Miss Turner be remem- 
bered, so essentially was that quiet, decorous, 
amiable person a very model of the perfect type 
of old-school aisles-women whom every pastor 
who adheres to the traditions of our fathers 
would like to secure—especially those believing 
in a comely, well-behaved person who, with light- 
ness and expedition, would conduct the halting 
stranger to the seat not likely to be required by 
its holder at the particular service he attended. 

Trade might be slack at the little mart in 
Preston Terrace, ladies might seem to have alto- 
gether abandoned the picturesque manipulation 
of Berlin wools, and the stationery section be at 
a stand-still, but it in no degree affected Miss 
Turner’s civil and respectful address. Ever at 
her post, and at all times by a pleasant manner 
showing that it was a congenial office, she cer- 
tainly tried her best to prove how thoroughly de- 
votion to a cause may be the mainspring of suc- 
cess. 

We who have previously penetrated the recess- 
es of this elderly in years but young in faithfulness 
coadjutor’s heart, know the secret admiration she 
treasured, and the simple constancy which ren- 


dered the conducting of every person along the 
aisle to hear him preach a process of singular 
delight. The man was so much of a hero, so 
elevated a being, that although she might be sit- 
ting upon the very back seat in the church—so 
distant that she would never place another there 
—so far away that the tenderest of his tones, the 
lower utterances quivering with emotion, were 
indistinguishable, yet she hung upon his words 
as those do who hear only with the heart. Miss 
Turner’s mind had of late been greatly upset be- 
cause of the damaging reports in circulation de- 
famatory to her hero. It had not diminished the 
attendance, but then they were the people who 
attended from curiosity, and whose morbid taste 
would take them as soon to a police court as toa 
church. Her hero had passed the defiling border- 
line dividing celebrity from notoriety. He was no 
longer—to the crowd—the ideal of all Christian 
excellence and eloquence, but the famous man 
who, possibly, had done something wrong, and, 
if he had not, ought to have done; and as this 
sort of hero pleases the crowd the best, there was 
no diminution in the attendance at the services, 
although there was a serious decrease in church 
membership—the ladies who sat plover fashion, 
and other credulous and particular families, hav- 
ing withdrawn. It was all a sincere grief to the 
pew-opener, who believed him as pure as any hu- 
man being could be, guiltless and very near sin- 
less. She felt it acutely, this inroad of a laugh- 
ing, whispering, careless set, many of whom did 
not even find the places in the hymn-books she 
courteously handed to them. 
wondered whether he knew it; had any ripple of 
the foully disturbed current reached his lofty 
standpoint; and what did he think of it. So 
high—could man stand higher ?—and to be as- 
sailed by such coarse slander! This indignant, 
worthy woman felt she would like to follow up, 
trace to its noisome covert each slimily crawling 
lie, and extract its fang. The greatest, as he was 
the best, and they could not let even him alone! 
Miss Turner could hardly contain herself when 
reflecting upon the poisonous trail. Half the 
night she was awake, devising means for check- 
ing the pestilent lie; but what could she do, poor 
soul, with her restricted influence, in her humble 
sphere of labor ? 

The charges were grave, Miss Turner knew, 
but who on earth could substantiate one of them ? 
As if a calumny or a scandal ever needed sub- 
stantiating. | hee 

One evening, at eight-o’clock service, among 
others crowding in was a polite elderly gentle- 
man, who, by reason of his gently affable man- 
ner, won upon Miss Turner’s attention before the 
other folk. Leaning toward her, the gentleman 
introduced a friend who, he said, had come a 
very long distance to hear Mr. Garland preach; 
would she kindly place them in a seat near the 
pulpit, as they were a little deaf. A mild fiction 
on the part of the man popularly thought mad ; 
but he was so anxious that Sir Kinnaird, whom 
he had actually induced to come on purpose, 
should see and hear the Minister to the best ad- 
vantage, that he adopted this appeal to the sym- 
pathy of the mild-eyed, kind-faced pew-opener ; 
and she at once conducted the two gentlemen and 
a little girl who accompanied them to Mr. Blake’s 
pew, immediately below the pulpit. ‘‘ Your lord- 
ship,” whispered Sir Dickson Cheffinger over the 


And Miss Turner - 


— a 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


hymn-book Miss Turner had placed in his hand, 
and across little Ella sitting between the two, 
‘will now have an opportunity of seeing the fa- 
mous Minister; and then Sir Dickson lowered 
his head to the book ledge, knowing it to be the 
custom. He had a hazy notion what to say, but 
he mumbled something to himself about speedily 
being restored to his rights, and was devotional 
in the extreme. Sir Kinnaird, who was never 
equal to stooping or bending, effected a compro- 
mise by holding his hat with his very elegant and 
lady-like hand before his face. Then he looked 
admiringly around ‘the building, the architecture 
of which pleased him. 

It was the evening following that of Barnard’s 
memorable intrusion. The day had brought the 
document demanded, also a communication to the 
effect that arrangements were in progress for 
carrying out the other conditions; to this was 
added the disagreeable intelligence that the little 
girl had escaped from the custody of his serv- 
ant, and could not be traced. Mr. Garland was 
exceedingly troubled and care-worn in conse- 
quence, and by no means in the best cue for his 
duties, but firm in his intention of occupying the 
pulpit, that personally he might confront rumor 
and dispel report. He had learned by inquiry, 
made with every care through Constance, that 
his poor wife was ill at the house of Mrs. Evans. 
During the day no further steps were taken, as it 
was urgently necessary to use the utmost caution 

_at this juncture. 

Mr. Garland was in the vestry, talking confi- 
dentially with Rev. Spencer Webb. The curate 
was full of sympathy with his friend now passing 

under this tidal wave of prejudice and suspicion, 
and predicted for it but a brief season. 

“Do let me prevail upon you to return home, 
and allow Mr. Evelyn or myself to preach ?” 

“T have no intention of preaching to-night, my 
dear friend; a few passages of Scripture to serve 
as a word or two with my people.” Said with 
marvellous gentleness, yet with such sad regret 
Mr. Webb was much moved. 

“The church is filling fast.” A sorrowful ex- 
pression was upon the speaker’s face; he knew 
the motive bringing these people to stare upon 
this calm, outr aged disciple of gentleness and 
love. But a terrible light was gathering in the 
eye; the nostrils dilated with a sense of ‘indigni- 
ty and wrong; veins on the white, broad brow 
outlined a course not hitherto perceptible; the 
cheeks bore a faint flush seldom seen there, and 
when he took Webb’s hand it was with a throb- 
bing and convulsive, albeit firm, grasp. 

“J will teach these people a lesson the like of 
which never was taught from pulpit, and answer 
them, in Higher Word than mine, the whole of 
their base charge.” 

He was trembling slightly, but would soon be 
composed. Mr. Webb gently drew an oak chair 
toward him, and the Minister sat down wearily. 

“Let me again beg of you to retire for to- 
night. You are not well; you have had too much 
of late to try your str encth. As usual, you have 
been thinking all of others and never of ‘yourself, é 

“Tam thinking of myself to-night.” It was 
said with pathetic significance. ‘A delicate re- 
monstrance is, I consider, due. I can address 
this to my people with more propriety than your 
kind self or Mr. Evelyn.” Then he abruptly ask- 
ed, “ Are any of the Blakes here this evening ?” 


181 

“No. Strangers occupy their pew.” 

“Tam glad of that. Give me my small Bible, 
and leave me for a few minutes to myself.” 

With loving respect Mr. Webb did as desired, 
and proceeded to the organist’s room, where Mr. 
Evelyn was giving that gentleman his directions. 

When alone, the Minister sat to the table with 
an almost stern aspect, so inflexible was it. He 
had been bitterly attacked, and there are some 
creatures of too magnificent an organization to 
submit tamely to excess of injury. With the pre- 
cise yet ready faculty usually characterizing his 
study of Scripture, he had selected his passages 
and marked his annotations before the evening 
service commenced, and then indulged in short 
but earnest prayer. 

When the verger came to him, with the one 
church-warden who remained faithful, to assist 
him with his gown, he informed them that he 
would not leave the vestry until the hymn before 
the sermon, when, at the last verse, he would pro- 
ceed straight to the pulpit ; and he desired that a 
glass of water might be there in readiness if re- 
quired. 

Up to the ordeal he wished to be alone. 

Soul-sympathy caught of the eye is at all times 
the helpful human source of inspiration in the 
pulpit. If he met eyes upon this evening they 
would, he felt sure, be cold, or curious, or specu- 
lative—rudely bold, with vile doubt behind, mock- 
ingly cruel, unfeeling - but he determined they 
should not ‘oppress the intention—righteous and 
just intention—with which he entered the pulpit. 
“Tf I speak to them in the words of Holy Writ,” 
he thought, “it may carry more weight than any 
language of mine.” 

All this time Miss Turner’s activity had been 
taxed to an unusual degree, and she was just won- 
dering where she could put our friends Miss Tick- 
lewich and Miss Caddie, and had at last made room 
for them under the gallery, when the doorway was 
blocked by a number of ladies, the leader of whom 
accosted poor Miss Turner imperiously with, 
“ You'll put us all together, please.” There were 
thirteen of them, and Miss Turner didn’t know 
how or where to oblige, with all her agile, accom- 
modating willingness; but Miss Penelope and 
party had come specially to quiz and revile this 
preacher, and if Miss Turner made any trouble 
about it they would march in a body and take 
possession of the pulpit stairs, and they told her 
so. This alarmed the worthy creature so much, 
that, quick and decorous of movement, she 
brought chairs from the school-room, and placed 
them in line down the centre aisle. 

Mrs. Wriggle was also present upon this occa- 
sion. There wasa wide distinction, in Mrs, Wrig- 
gle’s opinion, between a sinner and a saint, A. 
conscientious Congregationalist might go to stare 
at a sinner in the church who would have no busi- 
ness to sit under the same person when consid- 
ered a saint. Before the service was over, Mrs. 
Wriggle received change in full. 

Mrs. Lurch was there. Mr. Lurch had resign- 
ed his office from motives of principle and scru- 
pulous regard for the honor of the Establishment, 
but Mrs. Lurch was there, a whisper having reach- 

ed her that the man at bay would have a word or 
two to say; and she wondered keenly what he 
would have the audacity to put forward in exten- 
uation. Mrs. Lurch, with a pang, sat and looked 
the side seats hard in the face; she suffered on 


182 


account of not being able to sit inher cap. Mrs. 
Lurch considered it outrageous that ladies should 
be obliged to wear bonnets during divine service. 

Mrs. and Miss Bobbin were present. Miss Bob- 
bin looked plaintively at the Rev. Mr. Webb while 
that gentleman was reading the Lessons, as though 
imploring his special protection in the event of a 
scene when that dreadful Minister appeared. It 
was significantly noted that he was not present, 
in his pew or at the communion-table, during the 
reading of the Prayers, and the clever ones, with 
scofling toss up of their heads, whispered, “‘ Daren’t 
show his face, you know;” while those who were 
not clever, sneeringly replied, “ A little too warm 
for him this evening, perhaps.” 

Only one person thought the truth—that he was 
faint and ill, but that he would, when the time 
came, go through his duty like a being to whom 
weakness was unknown. . It was Miss Turner who 
guessed all, and she would have given much to go 
to him with the service of a Martha. 

The Countess of Comdarlington had arrived, 
and with her the Hon. Mrs. Glover and Miss Glov- 
er. At dinner that evening her ladyship said, 
“Mr. Garland informed the earl this morning that 
he would be away in Devonshire some few weeks, 
so that if you would like to hear him for the last 
time, I believe, you must go to this evening’s serv- 
ie)? 

With propriety and impressiveness the service 
proceeded until singing of the hymn before the 
sermon. While the congregation were singing 
the last verse, more eyes upon the vestry door 
than upon their hymn-books, it was opened by 
the verger, and there was a thrill electric through 
the whole area as the Minister appeared, and, with 
almost majestic mien, ascended the pulpit stairs. 
And the people thought it did not look much like 
guiltiness or shame-strickenness. ‘ But then, you 
know, it’s his method of braving it out,” said the 
clever ones; “when the clergy are detected at 
this sort of thing they’re sure to carry a high 
hand.” Those who were not clever said, “He 
knows he daren’t show his face here again, and 
means to brave it.” Merely an echo of what the 
clever people had said, but whispered with as 
sharp venom as though original. This darker 
machinery works in certain grooves. 

The hymn was ended; the last note of the organ 
lingered, as though giving him all the time possible ; 
rustling of silk dresses subsided ; the book which 
somebody always drops when there is a painful 
hush had dropped ; every eye in the building, save 
those of one person, were upon the Minister. Miss 
Turner, somehow, could not look at him; there 
was a sublime and awful expression upon his 
face, and the tender-hearted pew-opener could 
not look thereon. By his wish the gas had not 
been lowered upon this occasion, and he stood 
before his people with a certain sad haughtiness 
that made itself felt before a word was uttered. 
The silence was profound and painful. He seem- 
ed astonishingly at his leisure, so calmly was he 
turning the leaves of the Bible, not in the least, 
however, as though trifling or playing with the 
occasion or the effect; rather as overweighted 
by the responsibility of his purpose. Then he 
announced this passage of Scripture in a clear, 
firm voice—in the death-like stillness it had 
never seemed so clear— The First Epistle of 
Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians, the ninth 
chapter, the third verse.” A pause. Faithful 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


to his intention, he did not look at any per. 
son while reading forth this bold preliminary 
passage, “ Mine answer to them that do examine me 
as this? And people looked at one another, and 
then, just out of curiosity, hunted for the place 
to see if it really was in the Bible—it seemed so 
apposite—but having in their astonishment for- 
gotten whose epistle, and to whom sent, they 
couldn’t find it, and set it down as an invention. 

From the entrance of the Minister a spell was 
upon Sir Kinnaird Dalton, whose delicate organi- 
zation, never equal to surprises of any sort, was 
for a time entirely unnerved before this stupen- 
dous redivivus ; but then he soothingly re-assured 
himself, thinking, after the old cynical fashion, 
“I?ll make the turning up of people more con- 
fusing than ever, now the really defunct have 
commenced to fill the pulpits; but it will vary 
proceedings, and most of the churches will benefit 
by the change. I should like to go up and grasp 
his hand, and tell him I forgive the cruel deception, 
but of course one can not do that before all these 
people.” By the time this had, with difficulty, 
crossed the baronet’s equably tempered under- 
standing, he became conscious the recognition was 
even more unsettling to his little companion: 
startled and breathless in her surprise, she sat 
with large open eyes looking upward while emo- 
tion sent the color hot to her cheeks. 

He never looked toward their pew; he had been 
told strangers were there, and for a time strangers 
were aneye-sore. The brief pause—an impressive 
interval of suspense, when every uplifted face be- 
trayed the eager expectancy, when every head 
was busy wondering what discourse would follow 
that significant text—then was heard this, utter- 
ed in the same grave tone, with the same grave 
yet haughty calmness, “‘ The book of the Prophet 
Ezekiel, the ninth chapter, the eleventh verse.” 
A pause. ‘Goodness!’ said Mrs. Wrigegle to her- 
self, “if the man isn’t going to have two texts!” 
She heard it: ‘ And, behold, the man which had the 
inkhorn by his side reported the matter ;”? and “I 
know that isn’t in the Bible,” shesaid. “ Ishould 
think he wants an anonymous post-card sent to 
him with those words on from the last chapter of 
Revelation, descriptive of the plagues bestowed 
upon the man who adds to the Scriptures!” Mean- 
while the congregation was exercising itself won- 
deringly, and a reporter for one of the Brighton 
papers began to feel uncomfortable, moving a little 
to the left, an exceedingly stout lady in front af- 
fording the grateful shelter of a rock in the burn- 
ing desert. The Minister did not pause so long be- 
tween this and the next passage it was his pleas- 
ure to read ; the people, if they would, might think 
them in connection: “The First Epistle of Paul 
the Apostle to Timothy, the third chapter, the 
seventh and eighth verses.” A pause. Then de- 
liberate reading of this passage: ‘‘ Moreover, he 
must have a good report of them which are without, 
lest he fall into reproach and the snare of the devil.” 
He waited, that the verse might sink deep, before 
proclaiming its companion—“Likewise must the 
deacons be grave, not. double-tongued.” Whereat 
Mrs. Lurch tossed her head with infinite disgust, 
but remembering the action failed to bear im- 
pressiveness without the cap, she was satisfied 
with looking scandalized, on behalf of Mr. Lurch, 

so late an. office-bearer of. the church, and with 
setting the example of the only course proper 
under so personal an attack to the connections 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


present of other office-bearers who did not keep 
a brougham. In view of all this, and remember- 
ing her position as wite of one of the leading 
tradesmen in Brighton, Mrs. Lurch indignantly 
quitted her pew, and marched out, followed by 
the said connections, who were scattered here and 
there about the church. It created some com- 
motion. The Minister waited until there was si- 
lence, still looking upon his book—he had scarce- 
ly lifted his eyes from the avenging pages—then 
gave out one.other passage, ‘The book of the 
Prophet Ezekiel, the thirty-sixth chapter, the third 
verse.” In the short interval between this and 
the words, Mrs. Bobbin whispered Miss Merino, 
“T never did like that Prophet Ezekiel, what lit- 
tle I’ve read of him!” and Miss Merino whisper- 
ed back, “I do feel so timorous, ma; the place 
seems full of thunders and lightnings. Vd go 
out, but [Pm so nervous.’ The preacher was 
heard reading: “ Thus saith the Lord God, Ye are 
taken up in the lips of talkers, and are an infamy 
of the people.’ The Hon. Mrs. Glover, turning to 
her friend the countess, observed, in a seriously 
displeased manner, ‘‘ I am so sorry we came, dear ; 
this is profane! No person has a right to twist 
the sacred chronicles to suit his purpose.” ‘Bear 
with him, darling,” replied her ladyship; ‘but he 
is a naughty one, I do believe.” 

Yet one glance at the face, with its aggrieved 
Sadness—an expression that since he commenced 
had deepened to solemnity —was sufficient to 
dispose of any opinion as to his reverence and 
devotion. He had never appeared more thorough- 
ly in earnest, more impressed with the respon- 
sibility of his priestly office. Immovable, inflex- 
ible, he continued calmly as before: 

““The book. of Job, the thirtieth chapter, the 
first verse.” People found this—Job, xxx. 1 was 
easy of remembrance. The young people, who 
had been forward with jeer and jest, were partic- 
ularly quick at finding it; they rather enjoyed the 
lesson being read to their elders; but they. very 
soon lost the place again while the Minister read, 
“ They that are younger than I have me in deris- 
ton ;” and without pausing he read on, “‘ The twen- 
ty-first chapter of the book of Job, the third verse: 
‘ Suffer me that I may speak ; and after that I 
have spoken, mock on.” Oh yés, they quite 
thought them in connection; too much so! The 
color mounted to theircheeks. Miss Merino, with 
pardonable yearning to be in affinity with these 
young deriders, tried to look as though the coupled 
reproach covered her also with confusion; the at- 
tempt was futile, and caused a thin, afflicted-look- 
ing person next to her to shrink acutely, believ- 
ing Miss Merino was going to sneeze ; and with vio- 
lent antipathy to persons sneezing any where, the 
thin, afflicted-looking person especially disliked it 
in church, and when sitting next to it. 

The large number of people who had come from 
vulgar curiosity and out of sheer desire to stare 
for half an hour, at cushioned leisure and gratis, 
at the man every body was talking about—this 
considerable body of persons began to wish them- 
selves well out of it, for there was no telling what 
this goaded and baited hero would say to them ; 
he seemed all in the mood, with that quiet, reso- 
lute manner of his. They didn’t think it was go- 
ing to be like this, or they wouldn’t have come. 
And while they were thus agreeing, the Minister 
read again: 


188 


first chapter, the fifty-first verse: ‘ We are con- 
Sounded, because we have heard reproach: for stran- 
gers are come into the sanctuaries of the Lord’s 
house,’ ” 

And they who had done so looked vicious and 
vexed; and, disliking it altogether, very many of ¢ 
them arose and left the sanctuary to the Minis- 
ter’s own people. 

Wonderful was the light upon that meek wom- 
an’s face at her humble station by the door. She 
had wanted to take his part, to stand his cham- 
pion; but how effectively he was doing this for 
himself, and without one of his own gifted words, 
that, occasion demanding, she did not doubt would 
be even as arrows of fire. 

The exodus of strangers did not disturb that 
stern yet suffering judge; upholding a righteous 
cause, he was not troubled by the departure of 
any whose conscience would not permit of their 
remaining. But it was curious to see the gaps. 
He did not see them; his eyes were upon the 
Book whereby he judged, whereby he lived. 

He read continuously these several passages, 
that dropped like shells among the people—“‘ The 
thirty-first Psalm, the thirteenth verse: ‘Hor I 
have heard the slander of many? The tenth 
chapter of Ecclesiastes, the eleventh verse: 
‘ Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment ; 
and a babbler is no better.” The Second Epistle 
of Paul the Apostle to Timothy, the second chap- 
ter, the sixteenth and seventeenth verses: ‘ Shun 
profane and vain babblings. Their word will eat 
as doth a canker. The Epistle of Paul the Apos- 
tle to the Ephesians, the fourth chapter, the 
twenty-ninth verse: ‘ Let no corrupt conununica- 
tion proceed out of your mouth.’ The First Epis- 
tle of Paul the Apostle to the Thessalonians, the 
fourth chapter, the eleventh verse: ‘ Study to be 
quiet, and to do your own business.’ The Second 
Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians, 
the eleventh chapter, the twenty-first verse: *Z 
speak as concerning reproach.’ The book of Le- 
viticus, the nineteenth chapter, the sixteenth 
verse: ‘ Thou shalt not go up and down as a tale- 
bearer among thy people.’ ” 

“T say,” whispered Sir Dickson Cheffinger to 
Sir Kinnaird Dalton, “ what is. it all about ?” 

“Goodness knows! Sounds like an adieu, 
with a summary at the close of a pastorate. But 
what an awful fellow for texts !” 

Miss Ticklewich and friend could really sit 
no longer at a service, as they expressed it, which 
was a mere burlesque upon holiness, and con- 
ducted with a total disregard of reverence and 
every thing else. It was not because it was a 
week-night service that it was to be travestied in 
this form ;.it only proved the hardihood and con- 
fident audacity of this man, to whom the multi- 
tude had looked for spiritual guidance. Miss 
Caddie, however, said far less than her com- 
panion, upon whom the mantle had fallen ever 
since the Comdarlington réwnion. As they made 
a way out for themselves they were joined by 
Mrs. Wriggle, who had never worn so sour a 
look. ‘If Ebenezer had been here,” she said, 
aloud, as they passed out of the centre door, ‘“‘he 
would have answered some o’ them Scripter 
charges—a crawling, crafty jumble of sentiments 
as never ought to have been invented and insert- 
ed by a set of stupid revisers, who were evident- 
ly unqualified for their work, or they’d have ei- 


“The book of the Prophet Jeremiah, the fifty- | ther left out all likely to give offense to respectable 


184 


and well-to-do people, or else have put ’em all to- 
gether under one heading, in italics, ‘ Sentence of 
the Congregation on a Perjured Priest ? Pve no 
patience with such a behemoth and Pharisee, 
without principle, and past arguing with or bet- 
tering.” 

Although Mrs. Wriggle’s denunciations were 
not lucid they were strictly acid ; the dear friends 
with her found the lady’s company a piquant ad- 
dition to their own little dish, but not acceptable 
enough for an invitation to supper. 

Several other people left the church at the 
same time. When silence was restored, and not 
before, the Minister resumed the reading of his 
lesson. It was to a thinned congregation, yet 
perhaps on that very account an extra attentive 
one; it is certain those left bestowed extreme 
heed to the words, and expressed their opinion 
afterward. 

“The book of the Prophet Jeremiah, the ninth 
chapter, the fourth verse: ‘ Hvery neighbor will 
walk with slanders.’” Yes, many of these neigh- 
bors had done, but when told of it thought the 
thing cowardly. He continued: ‘The eighteenth 
chapter and eighteenth verse: ‘ Zhen said they, 
Come, and let us devise devices ; for the law shall 
not perish from the priest. Come, and let us smite 
him with the tongue, and let us not give heed to any 
of his words.’”” And they looked at one anoth- 
er curiously, their conscience smiting them: the 
preacher continuing, ‘The twentieth chapter, the 
tenth and eleventh verses: ‘Hor J heard the de- 
faming of many. Report, say they, and we will 
report it. All my familiars watched for my halt- 
ing, saying, Peradventure he will be enticed, and we 
shall prevail against him. But the Lord is with 
me as a mighty, terrible one: therefore my perse- 
cutors shall stumble, and they shall not prevail: 
they shall be greatly ashamed, their everlasting con- 
Susion shall never be forgotten.’ ” 

These neighbors could bear no more. They 
rose in a body, and left the church. Really the 
pews were becoming sparsely occupied, the de- 
voted remainder looking too obdurate to feel any 
thing. Even the Rev. Robert Evelyn was discon- 
certed ; it was not orthodox, by any means. He 
looked his disapproval across to the Rev. Spencer 
Webb, when the Rev. Spencer Webb nodded slight- 
ly, as to signify it was all right, and their friend 
knew what he was about. 

Their friend had not yet closed account with 
his congregation, for he proceeded to read, ‘St. 
Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians, the fourth 

‘chapter, the third verse: ‘ But with me it is a very 
small thing that I should be judged of you, or of 
man’s judgment.” ‘ Ah! thought they, “he is 
for brazening it out with insolent assurance!” 
But they heard this: ‘St. Paul’s First Epistle to 
the Corinthians, the fourth chapter, the twelfth, 
thirteenth, and fourteenth verses: ‘ Being reviled, 
we bless; being persecuted, we suffer it; being 
defamed, we intreat: I write not these things to 
shame you, but as my beloved.” And they mod- 
ified their views, he continuing: “St. Paul’s Sec- 
ond Epistle to the Corinthians, the fourth chapter, 
the eighth and ninth verses: ‘ We are troubled on 
every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, 
but not in despair ; persecuted, but not forsaken ; 
cast down, but not destroyed.’ The book of the 
Prophet Isaiah, the fiftieth chapter, the eighth 
verse: ‘ He is near that justifieth me. The book 
of Job, the twenty-ninth chapter, the fourteenth 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


verse: ‘My judgment was as a robe and a dia. 


dem,” 

It really seemed so, looking upon that glorious 
figure in the pulpit, his countenance lighted from 
the inner consciousness of innocence and purity. 
And thus thought the pew-opener while her en- 
tranced gaze seldom left his face. 
longer in giving utterance to the next passages, 
and his voice was moved to tenderness ; so tender 
was it one and another wondered whether that 
stern aspect could have been real. “St. Paul’s 
Second Epistle to the Corinthians, the twelfth 
chapter, the fifteenth verse: ‘ Zhe more abun- 
dantly I love you, the less I be loved.” It fell 
as a keen-edged reproach, and they began to fid- 
get the hassocks, and move with their toes impa- 
tiently. It was not all. He gave out: “The 
twentieth verse: ‘Mor I fear, lest, when I come, 
L shall not find you such as I would, and that I 
shall be found unto you such as ye would not; 
lest there be debates, backbitings, whisperings,’” 
Those last fears were particularly applicable to 
some whose occupations they were. “St. Paul’s 
Epistle to the Galatians,” the preacher resumed, 
“the fourth chapter, the ninth verse: ‘ But now 
after that ye have known God, or rather are known 
of God, how turn ye again to the weak and beg- 
garly elements, whereunto ye desire again to be in 
bondage?” They had not asked of themselves 
a question so pertinent; and, now it was asked by 
him who had turned-accuser, they could not an- 
swer it. And that there might be no mistake as 
to whom he addressed himself, this followed: ‘St. 
Paul’s Epistle to the Colossians, the first chapter, 
the twenty-first verse: ‘ You, that were some time 
alienated and enemies in your mind.” United to 
it a gentle pastoral remonstrance. ‘St. Paul’s 
First Epistle to the Thessalonians, the second 
chapter, the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth verses: 
‘Ye are witnesses, and G'od also, how holily and 
justly and unblamably we behaved ourselves among 
you that believe: as ye know how we exhorted 
and comforted and charged every one of you, as 
a father doth his children, that ye would walk 
worthy.” It needed not their quickly beat- 
ing hearts to bear testimony to its truth; it was 
written of deeds that would never die, its witness 
was spoken of the poor and sorrowing, those with 
no helper and having no friend. Some of these 
remembered that, and, stricken, they also, with 
bowed heads and reverently, quitted the building. 
He had many a time and oft filled buildings to 
overflowing ; this memorable night he was empty- 
ing his church, without any aid from the eloquence 
he would not deign to use for such a purpose. 

There were those remaining ‘staring stonily,” 
who had been delighted to draw the attention of 
friends and acquaintances to the fact of his hay- 
ing a banking account, to the circumstance of the 
considerable treasure he was, in their opinion, 
amassing together. And those who had been in- 
directly influenced, by the elaborate machinations 
of Barnard, to think and speak slightingly of the 
Minister. And those who had been assiduous in 
criticising his books and searching for defects 
and inequalities. To all he replied in a few well- 
chosen phrases. ‘The book of Job, the thirty- 
first chapter, the twenty-fourth and other verses: 
‘Tf I have made gold my hope, or have said to the 
Jine gold, Thou art my confidence ; if I rejoiced be- 


cause my wealth was great, and because mine hand 


had gotten much ; and my heart hath been secretly 


He was rather . 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


enticed, or my mouth hath kissed my hand: this 
also were an iniquity to be punished by the judge: 
for I should have denied the God that is above, If 
I rejoiced at the destruction of him that hated me, 
or lifted up myself when evil found him ; neither 
have I suffered my mouth to sin by wishing a curse 
to his soul, Behold, my desire is, that mine adver- 
sary had written a book.” 

When he included that superdelicate ethical 
propriety of the heart being enticed, and the 
mouth kissing the hand, those who had dissemi- 
nated scandal to that effect felt embarrassed and 
touched at last; he gave the conclusion to that 
matter with daring innovation that was emphatic- 
ally a cure. “The book of Job, the thirty-first 
chapter, the first verse: ‘Z made a covenant with 
mine eyes ; why, then, should [think upon a maid?” 
It was not to be supposed even they could sit pa- 
tiently under that! With general consent, as it 
were, they arose, and with an outraged and virtu- 
ous expression followed the example of those who 
had departed. The exponents of the gold theory, 
taking advantage of the confusion thus created, 
went out also, under shelter, and the critics fol- 
lowed them. Mr. Garland’s hearers were few at 
this point; the indefatigable Miss Penelope and 
band, however, determined (strength being given 
them) to see it out. i 

Very calmly did the Minister read his next se- 
lections from Scripture, but with terrible decis- 
ion. “St. Paul’s First Epistle to Timothy, the 
second chapter, the twelfth verse: ‘J suffer not a 
woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the 
man, but to be in silence.” Miss Penelope’s head 
tossed in revolt, and she looked round with omi- 
nous meaning to the string, sitting still in a ghast- 
ly line, although on both sides of them was a 
waste of empty pews. The preacher proceeded : 
“The book of the Prophet Isaiah, the fifty-ninth 
chapter, the fourth and fifth verses : ‘ They trust 
im vanity, and speak lies ; they conceive mischief, 
and bring forth iniquity. They hatch cockatrice’ 
eggs, and weave the spider's web: he that eateth of 
their eggs dieth, and that which is crushed breaketh 
out into a viper.” 

The cockatrice settled it; the whole band, with 
exception of Miss Dido, whose heart had warmed 
at the mention of eggs, was too acutely wounded 
by adoption of that word to remain any longer. 
They could have borne any other term, but that 
fatal application was the straw breaking their 
sublime resolution to sit it out, come what come 
would! With loathing and scorn, Miss Penelope 
and attendant goddesses strode forth, with noise 
and with bitterness. The majority of those re- 
maining accompanied them. 

Then the Rev. Westley Garland spake his clos- 
ing passages to the slender few left to hear them, 
perhaps the few of all that large concourse truly 
faithful to him. “St. Paul to the Philippians, 
the fourth chapter, the eighth verse; and the 
Epistle of James, the first chapter, the twenty- 
seventh verse: ‘ Finally, brethren, whatsoever things 
are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever 
things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatso- 
ever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
report ; of there be any virtue, and if there be any 
praise, think on these things. Pure religion and 
undefiled before God is this, To visit the fatherless 
and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself 
 anspotted from the world.” . 

These were his last words in the pulpit upon that 


185 


memorable occasion, and it was a fitting termina- 
tion, rounding the roughness of grouping, and 
making symmetrical the fragmentary whole. Aft- 
erward he sat back as he was accustomed to do 
after preaching, shading the brow and eyes with 
his hand. He looked very pale and harassed 
upon this trying evening. 

The Rev. Robert Evelyn gave out the closing 
hymn, and the slender residue of worshippers 
entered into the praise with spirit. It seemed 
to revive him; he raised his head, looking up- 
ward, a beautiful light on the face. From old 
habit, unconsciously, his gaze. wandered in the 
direction of Joseph Blake’s pew, and rested upon 
the face of Ella; he had so often looked down 
upon Rose thinking of his own, and fancying her 
there. This reality, albeit thrilling him to the 
soul, was to him as imaginary; sight grew dim; 
he closed his eyes, pained. The solemnity of the 
music, the low song of the people, moved him to 
tender melancholy; he longed to be alone, where 
no human eye could see: he was so tired of the 
publicity—bearable by pleasant lines, but unut- 
terably wearying by these darker tracks. The 
people retired; the Minister walked to the ves- 
try, where Mr. Webb and Mr. Evelyn awaited him 
with affectionate solicitude. 

‘““T know how distasteful this has been to you,” 
said Mr. Webb, relieving their friend of his gown. 

“T have engaged in more happy work, I admit. 
I shall not mind the unpleasantness if my dear 
people apprehend by it the wrong involved in 
their suspicions. Do not wait; I shall be here 
but a very short time, and will see that all is left 
in order. Many thanks for all!” 

They understood that he wished to be alone, 
and, with instant and thoughtful delicacy, left 
him. ; 

All the stately building was shadowy and dim; 
a light in the vestry, a light by the door where 
the patient pew-opener sat immovable, as though 
carved from that dusky changeless oak. Yet, 
silent though she was, she breathed quick with 
sudden interest and sympathy. She saw him 
walk with slow pace and lowered head to the al- 
tar. It was as though he walked in thought, in 
devotion, or in pain. 

And most truly it was with each of these he 
betook himself to the most sacred site where 
man, made minister, and minister, made man, can 
go with his burden of sorrows and of hopes. It 
was his last approach for a long time; and, 
moved by solemn and conflicting emotion, he 
would there lay and leave all his care and trou- 
ble, taking hence but the peace which comes 
with perfect assurance of Divine love, and the 
calm which is natural after turmoil in the war 
betwixt Good and Evil. He was powerfully af- 
fected while kneeling there; but it was all dark, 
and there was no one remaining of all that loved 
him save the poor pew-opener. Stay! <A foot-. 
step so light, it was as though one of the winged 
seraphs from the marble slabs upon the walls 
had flitted before the altar; it stole upon him 
there, wound an arm around his neck, stooped 
with love the sweetest under heaven, with lips 
that kissed and whispered, “ Papa dear, my own 
darling, dear papa!” A gentle and low utter- 
ance, but passionate with love; and it shook 
him mightily; he knew then what he had seen 
was real, knew that his own had found him 
while he had been vainly searching for those 


186 


lost. 
turned and drew her to him, his throbbing brow 
falling restingly upon her bosom, where she stood 
by him trembling. Both their hearts were too 
frail with the suffering which had long been their 
portion, to evince either control or firmness. Re- 
stored to one another’s love, life sweetened by 
the return to life, danger and difficulty over, a 
realm of still happiness opening before them, it 
was indeed a thrilling moment, and a strangely 
unlooked-for sequel to those incidents that had 
crowded upon each. Within himself he felt glad 
to be reunited to his darling thus; it was idyllic, 
and partook of the solemn aspect which led him 
to feel her restored by Him before whom all al- 
tars are. It was the sweet reward that followed 
upon toil, and the after-joy of which he had so 
often thought. There was the fine simplicity of 
true poetry about it all; a grave, imposing recital 
comely with anxieties at rest, espoused to calm 
thankfulness, the silent praise which in the low 
light of evenings in the East follows the seduc- 
tive strains of cymbal and song rejoicingly. 

The two by the altar in that shadowy church, 
where he had so often swayed the crowd, present- 
ed a singular reflection upon destiny; and nei- 
ther poet nor artist could well have designed a sit- 
uation of deeper meaning than this, come about 
so simply. Show us some ingenious puzzle-in- 
tricacy of grays, some artful commingling of 
shadows, some reflex of the primary beauty of 
steel-cloud and silver, and it will not be more 
significant with grave tint and tone, or more 
chaste with absence of all garish color. It was 
all in accord with the quieter calling. 

With marvellous tenderness the Minister took 
his child to the heart that had never ceased to 
love her with the tenderness that has passed 
describing by words. -Little was said, but that 
naturally had reference to her mother, and Hlla’s 
surprise and grief may be conceived when he del- 
icately told her of how that mother was lying ill 
at the village near by. It must occupy their in- 
stant attention. Ella did not possess her father’s 
caim knowledge. of the danger of shocks, and 
would have flown to the dear one there and then ; 
but the Minister explained the priceless lesson of 
patience, explained that the abruptness of love 
may be at times a selfishness and a cruelty. It 
must be broken With wonderful gentleness to 
their dear suffering one; and little Ella, when 
promised this loving office should be performed 
by herself, was fain to be content. He knew no 
creature in the world would perform a mission of 
such delicacy with more gentle tact. 

Then they went down the church. In the vesti- 
bule the baronet and his erratic companion were 
awaiting the issue with impatience. An affecting 
greeting passed between the friends of so very 
opposite nature. Sir Dickson Cheffinger stood 
in the background with retiring respect, until Sir 
Kinnaird with his languid grace drew the Minis- 
ter’s more immediate attention to the poor gentle- 
man. 

“You must thank Sir Dickson Cheffinger for 
the recovery of your little girl. He discovered 
her and brought her to my house, rightly judging 
I would interest myself at as early a moment as 
my awfully torpid temperament would admit of. 
But I really do think,” continued the baronet, 
while the Minister warmly grasped Sir Dickson’s 


He could not speak for a little while, but | 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


the sluggish current. The whole affair is so out 
of the beaten track, and your valedictory address 
was so unusual, I half entered into the spirit of 
the thing. But what have they been up to?” 

“Falling into the weakness of modern times, 
making light of the ministry, and sport of the 
minister.” 

The fastidious Sir Kinnaird, who never touch- 
ed this sort of thing, said, with a movement of 
indolent weariness, ; 

“Better go on to my hotel. Lot of draughts 
here; a general discomfort that may chill one’s 
proper tone. What are you going to do?” To 
Sir Dickson, whom he was by no means anxious 
to take to his hotel. 

‘Look for some quiet apartments,” replied the 
poor gentleman, humbly. 

“T think my friend here has some rooms that 
will suit you very well,” said the Minister, kindly, 
indicating Miss Turner with a courteous movemen 
of the hand. ; 

The pew-opener bowed with meek but grateful 
appreciation. 

“Miss Turner will show you to her house, 
where you will be very comfortable.” Shaking 
hands with Sir Dickson, he drew him aside, and 
in a low voice acquainted him with this startling 
piece of news, “‘I have been to CHEFFINGER upon 
your business. It is in my power to return this 
good service, as I promised I would do if possi- 
ble. You will be installed at CHErrINcER ere 
very long!” 

The poor gentleman heard, and long after they 
had gone stood dazed beneath its overwhelming 
import. It was not until the gentle voice of the 
pew-opener broke that spell that he bestirred 
himself, and gradually realized all its happy 
meaning. Then he said to himself, “Cousin 
Claude has filled the old place with many guests, 
I have heard; but what troops of visitors Z shall 
have when I am installed at CuEerrinceEr !” 

They walked on to Preston Terrace, and Sir 
Dickson was greatly taken with it, and also with 
his kind landlady. : 

‘“‘One thing has surprised me,” said Sir Kin- 
naird to the Minister on the way to the hotel. 
“Tt is that while under process of transmigration 
you did not develop into a Doctor of Divinity at 
once, so many of the fellows we used to know 
have passed into that, presumably, happier state.” 

“] don’t know why it should be; I did not 
think it necessary. I relied upon the one simple 
title our own and other Churches permit and hon- 
or, without even so much as taking advantage of 
the university degree to which I am, as you know, 
entitled. It would be interesting to know, how- 
ever,” he added, with half-sad, half-comical ear- 
nestness, ‘“‘ whether the higher grade exempts the 
modern minister from that vein of criticism which 
verges upon the slanderous.” 


Se aeennEIee commana” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 
REUNITED. 


A neat and pleasant chamber, where shaded 
light and exquisite stillness aided an invalid’s 
gradual recovery. . 

The blow, shattering and prostrating in its 
immediate effect, weakening in its results, and 


hand, “you have done me good, and haye stirred | fraught throughout with an astonishing and hor- 


A MODERN MINISTER, 


rible revulsion of feeling, was yet not one to de- 
stroy feeling through destruction of reason, nor 
annihilate pain by the extinction of life. This 
delicate fragile lady had passed the portals. of 
a martyrdom more bitter than is the fate of her 
sex in its most disastrous calamities, and was 
slowly experiencing the consciousness which is 
the more vivid sign of pain, permitting of rea- 
soning upon the origin and cause. Those long, 
weary hours when she was lying there thinking, 
with the keenest sensibility, seemed fraught with 
that intense despair utterly beyond the pale of 
hope. It was when she was alone, and the kind 
friend whose ministering seemed so infinitely ten- 
der had gone about her household duty, that she 
‘suffered thus. As frequently as those duties 
would permit, Mrs. Evans sat by the bedside, 
holding her friend’s hand with soft compelling 
solicitude, and so great was the delicacy of her 
sympathy those seasons were endued with help- 
ful restorative influence. It would be difficult to 
relate how finely this gentle lady’s sensitive con- 
dolence came in at this crisis. She asked no 
questions, and did not burden the invalid—the 
common error of their sex—by recounting all her 
own sorrowful experiences, although she had 
more than enough sad memories of her own. 

It was the morning following the events de- 
scribed in the last chapter, and Mrs. Evans was 
busy at her household duties, while Bertie sat by 
the window reading. Looking up from his book, 
Bertie saw their famous neighbor, the Minister, 
unlatching the garden gate, and with him a little 
girl. He hurried to the kitchen to tell his moth- 
er, who was making some jelly, but she placed 
this on one side for a moment, while she went to 
the door. Mr. Garland greeted the lady with the 
kind consideration usual with him; she noticed, 
however, that his voice was tremulous. He ex- 
plained sufficient in a few words to enlist her 
most careful assistance, and while he waited be- 
low she took the little girl up stairs, and placed 
her for a minute or two in a room adjoining that 
of the invalid. The batter, with susceptibilities 
sharpened, noticed the change upon the face of 
her friend, although it was but transitory; she 
had, moreover, heard the sound of visitors at the 
door. ‘ What is it.?” she asked, with breathless 
dread and expectancy, which will be readily un- 
derstood and sympathized with. The other, pre- 
serving as calm a bearing as was possible, said: 

“Merely the visit of a friend, dear, to inquire 
how you are this morning; do not let it disturb 
you.” How much the eyes tell at these instant 
periods! Mrs. Travers, raising herself with ex- 
cited, eager nervousness, begged to be told who it 
was that had called. . And her friend gently re- 
plied, ‘‘One you will be so relieved to know is 
well, and to have with you; your little girl has 
been brought from London to bear you company.” 

“Thank God!” murmured Mrs. Travers, sink- 
ing back, a glad light playing upon her face. She 
had indeed, as her friend knew, been exceedingly 
distressed on account of her child, although be- 
lieving her safe at Sir Horace Vivian’s. Mrs. 
Evans was greatly rejoiced and encouraged by 
that sunnier gleam, and presently said, 

“T will bring Ella in, shall I?” 

The other gratefully assenting by an inclina- 
tion of the head, her friend went to Ella and told 
her that her mamma was delighted to hear she 
had come, and anxious at once to see her. Mrs. 


187 


Evans then returned to the Minister, aware that 
the little girl would perform her mission best 
alone. 

Ella closed the door noiselessly and advanced 
with the lightness so remarkably her characteris- 
tic, and knelt down by the bedside as softly, 
while her fingers stole bird-like to those trem- 
bling hands put out toward her. Her mother 
was crying and could not speak, and the child 
preserved the attitude of simple devoted love, 
until she was more composed, ‘Then she said, 
faintly, : 

“It is a great comfort to have you with me, 
darling; I have prayed for this.” 

“Dear, dear mamma, why did I not know of it 
sooner? But I have come now to nurse and make 
you well, and you will soon be stronger; then we 
shall be happier than ever before; really and 
truly, dear mamma,” looking with bold confi- 
dence in her mother’s eyes, and sending a curious 
thrill to her soul. There was a depth of assur- 
ing eloquence that carried greater weight than a 
more labored introduction would have done. To 
the child’s astonishment her mother seemed to 
read her very thoughts, raising herself slightly 
upon her elbow and looking with terrible wist- 
fulness in her little girl’s eyes. 

“Ella dear, what has happened since we met, 
your face seems beaming with joy ?” 

“How can it help, mamma, being again with 
you? But I have something very sweet to tell 
you presently, dear.” 

Her arm wound caressingly about her mother’s 
neck, and by a lovely action she drew the throb- 
bing head toward her, laying a little hand cool 
and soft upon the temples. This control and the 
firmness soothed and lulled the eagerness and 
emotion. Ella felt all the imminent hazard of 
the time, and preserved that gentle repose with 
an effort of will that confirmed the opinion Con- 
stance had formed. The life of this beloved 
mother was trembling in the balance; it was a 
time when words even might break the agonized 
spirit upon the wheel. The child tried to keep 
her heart’s beating back, and to stay the quick 
breathing that she feared fanned the dear one’s 
cheek too tremulously. With the tenderness of 
old with which she had been wont to lightly 
smooth her mother’s hair when the head ached, 
she now passed her hand with tranquillizing move- 
ment over the soft bands, and was startled to no- 
tice since doing so last some streaks of silver had 
appeared. The action, electric, and from a child’s 
hand the best banishment of pain, now assuaged 
the feverish vibrating pangs that with every pulsa- 
tion seemed to dart from heart to head. The lit- 
tle girl continued her re-assuring, quietly restor- 
ing influence, and she could feel a gradual calm- 
ness and lessened throbbing, could see the hectic 
flush grow lower, the terrible glitter in the eyes 
become subdued. 

Then, carelessly as possible, and still without 
timidity, Ella said, 

“You have told me sometimes about a cruel 
enemy with whom papa had quarrelled, and who 
brought us to sorrow—” 

“ Yes”—looking up with affrighted suddenness 
at the very mention of him. 

“That unhappy day when poor papa left us he 
met this man and another in the lane leading to 
the sea, and it was through them it happened. 
They would have gladly seen him drowned; but 


. 


188 


God saved him, to return to us after doing the 
work He saved him for, You know of it, dear 
mamma, but do not know all the truth; for when 
they found he had been saved, they schemed to 
rob him a second time, and again to make people 
think the worst. And in this you were to be in- 
cluded.” 

The child paused here, to allow her earnest 
words to be grasped. She had spoken with a 
simplicity and depth of feeling which carried con- 
viction with them. A mere child, unversed in 
eloquence, y et using words in themselves of mean- 
ing; briefly expressing the child’s summary of 
the ’ drama, without logic possibly, but plentiful 
with pathos, and uttered without once by tear or 
tremor giving cause for emotional display. And 
although inwardly agitated, Mrs. Travers pre- 
served her feelings overcoming her in an outburst 
of tears, for she grasped the office her little girl 
had accepted, and the child’s presence of mind 
acted restrainingly, she felt so for her at this 
painful time. 

Seeing her mother continue calm, grateful for 
it and more happy, Ella resumed : 

“You remember Lady Guilmere, the lady of 
whose goodness we so often used to hear? Well, 
papa was saved by her servants, and was taken 
to her house. When well enough, her ladyship 
persuaded him to become a minister, and the op- 
portunity was offered of doing so in Brighton. 
Of course papa’s first thought had been for you 
and me, but for a time he yielded to Lady Guil- 
mere, who advised him that greater service would 
be done to all of us by his making his way alone. 
But he could not live on so, and hurriedly sent 
for us, to Devonshire, and to Hertfordshire, think- 
ing grandpa would be moved by his rumored 
death to provide for us at the court. And when 
we could not be found his sorrow was so great 
that he felt sure he had done wrong. And he 
has not ceased to feel so, or to try to Snd us; 
but it seemed we were to be parted for a time, 
dear mamma; and won’t it make us love him 
more now than ever in our life before ?” 

This was said with so glad a delight and with 
so innocent an air, the mother, with a passionate 
impulse, caught the child to her heart, while re- 
peatedly kissing the white brow. She held that 
pretty head firm: it had been bravely thinking 
for them; she was of old in darkened days the 
comforter, she was now the restorer of her peace; 
and she held her there with an intense thankful- 
ness to God that through all the shifting vicissi- 
tudes that had befallen them the child was left to 
her, and not this only, but had been sent to her 
as the messenger of life, of love, and peace. 

Half shyly, and with a piquant bashfulness, 
Ella leaned from her a moment to ask, whisper- 
ingly, 

"Fou know papa is down stairs waiting? And 
suffering all this time! Shall I go to him now, 
mamma, and say— Well, do you tell me what 
to say.” 

From this exquisite, playful and serious, glad 
yet sad, entreaty there was no escape. 

“ Say that mamma thinks you have succeeded, 
darling, in making her feel better and happier ; 
and ask papa to come to me at once.” 

The little girl went down to him, and with as 
nice delicacy told him, adding that mamma was 
smiling. How a little thing—so ridiculous a tri- 
fle to those out of the circle of suffering—will re- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


assure! The man was deadly pale with anxious 
suspense, and she came to him with news of that 
smiling, and what an awful weight was lifted, 
and how he thanked God! 

He entered the invalid’s chamber with a light 
step, a re-assuring manner, and a presence that 
carried with it in reserve ample and satisfactory 
explanation of all that was doubtful and distress- 
ing. He knew this would be gathered from his 
manner with the instant sensitive quickness of 
the sick and mentally suffering. Without afford- 
ing her occasion to utter a word, he said, with 
grave, loving earnestness : 

“very thing shall be explained, my darling, 
without delay beyond the interval necessary for 
you to recover calmness and confidence, You 
will understand all immediately. Be tranquil, 
create faith in me for a few minutes, the better 
to sympathize with my explanation.” 

The firmness which the gentle dominion exer- 
cised, the composed thought which this presence 
of mind compelled, the evident stanch faithful- 
ness to honor and to love—implied more by the 
tone of voice than by the words—all evoked the 
sympathy he had desired. 

A beautiful smile rendered the delicate face so 
exquisite he could not restrain the love moving 
him to the soul, and he leaned tenderly forward 
to kiss her. She took his hand, holding it all- 
fondly on her breast, yet with great timidity, as 
half apprehensive either of its changed warmth 
or its lowered truth, or even of the reality of this 
wonder being genuine, and not one of those mock- 
ing fancies which had so often tormented her 
after the loss of Lionel. 

Summoning such composure as was possible, 
he sat down by the bedside, and in a low voice 
commenced the narration, which he made brief 
and pointed, yet complete, using infinite delicacy, 
but with such wealth of love breaking through 
it, wherever allusion to herself and their child oc- 
curred, that it seemed to soothe and heal in the 
telling, and restore by the very evolving of motive 
and purpose. Her whole attention was absorbed 
as soon as the dangerous point at the beginning, 
when his course was first entered upon, was pass- 
ed, and, if not thought reasonable or right, that 
course appeared, at ‘least, to be actuated by good 
motives and for just ends; then, from enchaining 
her solicitude, and, as he ‘proceeded, winning her 
heart-felt interest, he (with the eloquence of which 
he was a master, and which had never been di- 
rected in more tender or more moving channels) 
attracted the sweet union of her forgiveness and 
assent. With the progress of the relation, its 
connection with Constance became apparent, ‘and 
his wife experienced upon her side one little pang 
of remorse that she had permitted herself to lend 
belief to the gross calumny; but then, as she 
comfortingly thought, this would not have been 
but for that other overwhelming revelation of her 
dear one living. Very touching was this recon- 
ciliation which his loving, delicate earnestness 
thus effected, brought out of so untoward mate- 
rial, that would bear extenuating and analyzing 
to every living soul except a wife; yet by his rare 
tact and refined, ingenuous forethought and con- 
trol made exceptional, high, and ennobling even 
to her. 

And when he had finished the strange chroni- 
cle, had told of the self-denial for others, the lofty 
purpose in his heart from the beginning, and had 

. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


depicted all the bitterness of the sorrowing lone- 
liness and unceasing regret, she evinced no im- 
patience that it had been kept from her, and gave 
him a forgiveness so full and unrestrained its 
generous love moved him to the soul, and falling 
upon his knees by her bedside, he caught her 
hand, clasping it, while his face was bowed above 
that tender grasp. 

“‘Go to Constance, dear, and tell her all is well; 
that troublesome mysteries are accounted for, 
and to my satisfaction.” 

“May I?” 

“Certainly, I wish it.” 

He went, and Constance came to her; the sweet 
face bringing sunshine with it, and the remem- 
brance of old days so vivid it seemed to hang this 
new happiness with a picture of that time, veiling 
all the sorrow since. There was such clear and 
candid beauty, she had been well likened to Evan- 
geline and the peerless Elaine; and no one look- 
ing thereon could doubt the purity and sincerity 
that were the lights behind. 

Constance came to her, and then she might 
weep unchecked ; tears would relieve. The feel- 
ing heart of Constance beating responsive meas- 
ure, while her tears fell also; compassionate sym- 
pathy and loving regard for her friend caused this 
meeting to be very affecting to her. 

“And we shall really possess the old home 
again?” It seemed so amazing after all that 
dread ordeal connected with its loss, and with 
yearning for confirmation of its momentous and 
happy meaning, Mrs. Travers looked in the girl’s 
face eagerly. 

‘Yes, dear, so soon as you are well enough to 
bear the journey.” 

“Then you will find me get well quickly.” 

“You should do so, with the tender nursing 
that will wait upon recovery. I shall be often 
here, Ella will not leave you, and the lady below 
is? 

“Mindful as a sister, and so good; no reward 
would be acknowledgment for the considerate deli- 
cacy with which I have been tended.” 

Below, an interesting conversation upon this 
subject was passing between the Minister and 
Mrs. Evans. 

“« Any mention of recompense for the kind care 
shown to my wife would, for its utter insufficiency, 
be insult, therefore I do not think of it for a mo- 
ment; but if our friendship will—” 

“No,” said the lady, quickly, unconsciously 
glancing at the beautiful child sitting thoughtful 
and still, yet with a face of an infinite eloquence ; 
“we can make no new friends; we do not visit 
nor desire visitors. The little I have done has 
been such as we would do for a stranger again 
with readiness, but with reluctance, if in return 
the service created friendship it is neither con- 
venient to maintain nor prudent to encourage.” 

And at that, recognizing under its plain speak- 
ing the depth of motherly solicitude, the Minister, 
far from being offended, appreciating its candor 
and forethought, replied, with graceful yielding 
to her opinion, “I have a proposal to make of 
which I have been thinking with some earnest- 
ness, and hope to gain your sanction for the proj- 
ect: you would sorrow to be parted from your 
son, or I should like to place him at college ; but 
if you will permit me to provide him with a tutor 
at home, I shall be very glad—a gentleman of 


your denomination, whose learning and court- } 


189 


esy would make him an agreeable companion, and 
who might, if you please, reside at the Grange. 
If without hesitation or embarrassment you will 
accept this slight return service, I shall feel very 
grateful ; we shall neither then be under an obli- 
gation, and friendship will be—well, possibly some- 
thing in the dim future, when years shall have 
fled and—” 

‘Mothers will less need the care that is all the 
world to them ?” asked with instant yet not dis- 
pleasing anxiety for that time. Then adding, 
gratefully and with emotion, “But how can I 
thank you for this delicate proposal? My heart is 
too full to do so; my boy is so dear, so very dear! 
Dare I say that to accept it would be very wel- 
come, after my recent unsociable and, as you must 
think, cold remark ?” 

“T understand, Mrs. Evans, and am quite in 
sympathy with it; such sincerity and such fore- 
sight are but too rare. I highly commend the 
spirit which prompted you so to speak. And 
now, without a word of remonstrance, you must 
please allow me to do as I wish.” And holding 
out his hand with a warm frankness denoting 
unmistakably the friendship upon his side, the 
agreement was ratified, and the Minister returned 
to his invalid, where he discovered with pleasure 
two more friends likewise upon the best of terms, 

Now that theice had been broken, he could sit 
down and talk happily and unreservedly of the 
future; of the past enough had been said. 

And when her child came nestling by her side, 
so serene an expression of content and freedom 
from pain lighted up the invalid’s fair face, they 
hoped it would not be long before she would be 
well enough to go down stairs. 

The mind has much to do with restoration to 
health; the mind at rest and in perfect peace is 
a greater physician than any wealth can summon 
to aid recovery. And this gentle lady, who had 
been so prostrated, mended thenceforth, and ev- 
ery day saw renewal of strength and revival of 
brighter spirits. Those watching so eagerly were 
unflagging in their kind attention, and not least 
of the incentives toward the lighter train of 
thoughts was given while the Minister sat read- 
ing, with his own thrilling yet attuned eloquence, 


from the famous writings as yet not read by her. 


Those were proud moments, resting back listening 
to that voice that seemed of more melodious 
depth than ever, and following the rare pictures 
his genius had painted, until the confines of the 
walls of a sick-chamber seemed to fall down, and 
the trammels of a poor body’s weakness to pass 
all away. So another life revived; and to him, 
reading with lowered tones, and often glancing 
from the book to the face so still, yet with the 
smile unfaded, this seemed, indeed, the triumph 
over wintry seasons. 

When convalescence enabled her to spend the 
first day down stairs, she seemed greeted by in- 
visible kisses from numberless flowers, and when 
the first walk out was taken, she appeared to be 
supported by angels. Her strength came back 
as though glad to come; the color re-tinted her 
face, and the Minister thought the journey might 
be attempted. They were all so eager to get 
back to the old home; and he believed it would, 
more than any thing, joined to the healing air, 
tempered from east winds and variable changes, 
assist in the regaining of health and strength. 

He had been busy during the probation time 


190 A MODERN MINISTER. 


fitting up the Grange with greater comfort in 
readiness for their return from Devonshire, when 
he would resume the work of the ministry with 
new zest, and yet stronger love for its high office 
and capacity for good. In this he would now be 
assisted; knees would no longer be feeble or 
hands droop, while a wife’s encouraging sym- 
pathy made the life beautiful. 

His neighbors, the tenants of the farm nearest 
the Grange, had been friendly disposed toward 
him, and now, while the old place was undergo- 
ing renovation, were eager with offers of those 
little courtesies people in out-of-the-way places 
do sometimes render one another. Additional 
interest attached to the circumstance through 
their niece having been kind to little Ella in the 
time of that perilous captivity in the house of 
Bartholomew Rolf; and the Minister, grateful 
beyond describing to any who had shown kind- 
ness at the period of their trouble, when the girl 
was recognized by Ella, at once inquired into this 
change of scene. It appeared Mrs. Rolf had 
written to her brother-in-law to say that in con- 
sequence of Bartholomew having got into a little 
temporary trouble she was compelled to take a 
situation where she could not have Edith with 
her, and did they mind having the child at the 
farm. Now this was John Lessie, the brother of 
that unfortunate individual whose run of ill luck 
upon the turf has before been commented upon. 
John Lessie was as steady and quiet-going as his 
brother was the reverse. Miss Ruth, his sister, 
who managed the house, was a genial, homely 
soul, kind of heart and fond of children; an as- 
tonishing knitter of worsted stockings, rearer of 
poultry, and cultivator of rose-trees. Well liked 
and much respected in the village, this pleasant 
woman of mature years often wished their home 
held some sunny-faced boy or girl, if but for com- 
pany; and when the letter came from the widow 
of that wild brother whose name was seldom 
upon their lips, and who had often clouded their 
peace while living, she overruled John Lessie’s 
scruples and set her heart upon the project. 
True, they neither knew any thing of the writer; 
they had heard in years gone by that she was 
fond of dress, and scarcely appeared in garb that 
was becoming, according to their old-fashioned 
notions, but of the woman personally they knew 
absolutely nothing; and it was scarcely worth 
while commencing the acquaintance thus late in 
the day, thought the cautious farmer; which need 
not affect taking their brother’s child, pleaded 
the warm-hearted. aunt. She wanted something 
to love, and was prepared to love this girl, be the 
parentage good, bad, or indifferent. They wrote 
consent, and Mrs. Rolf, who had accepted an en- 
gagement at a notorious place of al-fresco enter- 
tainment on the outskirts of London, was great- 
ly relieved in consequence, for she loved Edith 
too well to wish to take her with her in the new 
sphere of livelihood. A livelihood with this lady 
represented unlimited beverage, free license of 
manner, extravagance of apparel, and male soci- 
ety liberally suffused with the stable, and she 
would rather Edith was out of it. It was the 
one and the only good deed of her life, and of it 
an immortal soul would perhaps be saved. The 
girl quitted the heat, smoke, spirits and water, 
licentiousness, quarrelling, trickery, meanness, 
and lies, to which she had been accustomed and 
steeped in all her life, and came to the quiet vil- 


lage, there to learn purity from the valley lilies; 
grace from a grove of bluebells, modesty from 


retiring violets, innocence from the daisies scroll- 


ing the slopes of downland as with a new and 
delightful language, and early hours of the deli- 
cate pimpernel. And the glimpse now and then 
of the Minister’s little girl excited the ambition 
to resemble her in those graces of character 
which made this child lovable and admirable. » 

Before leaving, the Minister intrusted the keys 
of the Grange to John Lessie, who promised to 
overlook the work and communicate to him the 
progress. 

On the eventful morning of departure Constance 
was very pale, and, the Minister saw, was suffer- 
ing. Robert Evelyn came over in Mr/ Garland’s 
carriage, and the four would proceed so far as 
Brighton, where Constance was about to return 
to her father’s house. Mrs, Travers, with tender 
thought, proposed that Constance should be so- 
licited to accompany them to Torquay, and would 
really have been glad of her friend’s company, 
but the Minister shook his head doubtfully, and, 
for her sake, declined to put the request. 

And when Mrs. Travers affectionately pressed 
her hand, saying,“ We shall think of you, dear, 
and you will think of us!” 

“Yes,” replied Constance, with a quivering 
lip, and— 

“That faint pink smile, so sweet, so cold, 
Like a wood anemone.” 


Then followed a word with the Minister while 
his wife and Mrs. Evans were interchanging fare- 
wells. 

“We need not be strangers, when I return 
with renewed vigor to my work. I hope you will 
come and hear me often, and be very much with 
us in our home.” 

There was a beautiful light in the girl’s eyes 
while looking up into his. ‘I shall never miss 
in my attendance at church, but shall be too busy 
with my household duties to visit very often.” 

Her friend took a small case from his pocket, 
upon the velvet. within rested a magnificent gold 


chain and pendant in the form of a diamond 
cross. ‘Accept this, Constance, in memory of 


your kind sisterly support and sympathy when I 


stood literally alone.” It was very beautiful, and. 


even though one of his dear smiles was more 
priceless in her eyes, she accepted it as his gift, 
to be treasured for a lifetime. 


The journey was performed by pleasant stages, 


and the invalid was less fatigued than they fear- 
ed would be the case. It was going home—there 
is all in this. Home! How the hearts of the 
three were thrilled at sight of the garden gate, 
standing wide open like the first word of wel- 
come, taking them back into the boundary that 
had been their world of happiness; and if the 
world had widened to them they loved this none 
the less. 

The mansion had been transferred as it stood, 
costly furnishing, elegancies, extravagancies, lux- 
uries surpassing any they had ever been accus- 
tomed to; it was Sir Kinnaird Dalton’s generously 
characteristic mode of testifying to his gratification 
at the happy turn of events. ‘I can well afford 
it,” he wrote, ‘since you have relieved me of my 
clever but decidedly unpleasant secretary, who is 
bound, he tells me, for India.” The transforma- 


tion the interior had undergone exercised a cheer- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 191 


ing influence upon the mind; its immediate effect | parted a cheerfulness atoning to some extent. A 
was healthful, the banishment of all that could| dusky, richly furnished, heavily leathered and 
recall old sorrows was so complete; not a wall, | draped, sumptuously comfortable old drawing- 
door, ceiling, or window but had been aitered and} room. Those massive chairs were of a type mon- 
beautified, and the feeling experienced was that | ey could not procure at the present day; they 
of returning to one’s home after it had, as Ella} had been there in the father’s and grandfather’s 
put it, been changed by the fairies into a palace. | time. Mr. Travers would on no account have 
The garden, however, remained unchanged, and | permitted the removal of one even from its his- 
they were glad of this: after many years’ ac-| torical position in the room. Mr. Travers was 
quaintance one grows to love the shape and sta-| conservative in the matter of the ancient land- 
tion of every flower-bed, flower, and shrub. And | marks, within as well as without the house, and, 
they were on the right side of the year for its | from the line of old portraits to the cellars of old 
blossoming wealth, and in odorous summer even-| wines, knew the pride which the possessors of 
ings mother and child would swing laughingly | such heir-looms alone can know. It had been a 
there to music, in a dainty shower of rose leaves | terrible blow when Lionel’s supposed death was 
thrown by a man’s strong hand. The setting | broken to the old gentleman by Mr. Penfold, the 
sun was tinting the old terraces and statues upon | faithful friend of the family for many years, and 
their arrival, and the fountains curled gracefully, | Mr. Travers had never recovered the shock of it. 
almost merrily, and tossed rose-hued gem-like | That there should be a possibility that the names 
spray in their path, while the trees seemed tinted | of Beresrorp and Travers should perish with 
with gold, familiar foliage and well-known boughs, | their honor, be held up to public pity, written 
all greeting them with the most cheering expres- | down by some Landed Gentry or Peerage com- 
sion it is possible for such to wear. piler, remembered by the old families of England 
The Minister’s servants from Hawkingdean had | as no longer one of themselves, or the court and 
been sent on before, and awaited them with re- |} park pointed at as once belonging to them, but 
spectful attentiveness. They would receive little | now—to whom? It all rendered the old gen- 
or no company; these maids therefore would form | tleman acutely sensitive; he could not reveal to 
sufficient establishment according to their changed | any the mingled remorse, sorrow, pain, and dis- 
ideas. Of old it was very different. appointment at his heart, but was grave and com- 
A large official-looking missive had arrived be-| posed under the trouble in his latter days. 
fore them; it was a draft of apology and vote of | The attached, warm-hearted friend and his 
confidence, drawn up by the church-wardens and | mother were staying on a visit at the court. 
very numerously signed by his parishioners. It! From the first they had relaxed no effort to 
conveyed their regret at the misunderstanding to} bring about the restoration of Mrs. Travers and 
which they had lent themselves, with a full as-| her child in the old gentleman’s regard. It 
surance of the most loyal faith in their pastor; it | would at least provide a loving companionship— 
witnessed to the good wrought by his ministry, | in Herbert Garston’s opinion a very fair conso- | 
and the deep sense entertained by all classes j lation for any amount of trouble. 
alike, of his unwavering self-denial and philan- | Mr. Penfold had recently arrived, had lunched, 
thropy. He valued the production at the rate ; and requested permission to lay before his esteem- 
this man would be likely to attach to all such | ed client some lately acquired data of interest. 
veering of the vane; nevertheless, it served to} “First, Sir, any news of my poor ward?” It 
show that public opinion was pacified, and that] was with tremulous eagerness, yet as scarcely 
the aspersions upon his fair fame had been but a} daring to hope for a favorable reply, that Mr. 
nine days’ injury. This was no doubt in part due | Beresford Travers put the all-important question. 
to his prompt and decisive action in the matter. “None, Sir.” Mr. Penfold was very pointed 
By the evening’s post the Minister received also | in matters of business, and did not agree with 
a few lines from Mr. Barnard, inclosing that note | prolonging suspense by a word. It was upon 
purloined from Miss Turner which was dropped | one occasion Mr. Penfold’s pleasure to acquaint 
by Mr. Garland in the church, of some impor-|an unsuspecting but decidedly needy individual 
tance at that time, since it was a letter of friend- | of the demise of a relative, with his accession to 
ship and gratitude for the education Constance | large possessions: the solicitor made short work 
had received, written by Robert Evelyn from Tor- | of it, thus: “‘Uncle deceased! Yourself heir! 
_ quay, and addressed to Lionel Travers. The | Considerable property! Condole with you! Con- 
lines accompanying it were as follows: gratulate you!” Shaking hands with the ap- 
NPY: proved legal movement customary under the cir- 
“T return you the last piece of property be- cumstances. 
longing to you now in my possession. I start} Mr. Travers knew his solicitor, and simply 
for India shortly. Going in for increase of busi- | bowed. 


ness, hot pickles and condiments. Excuse haste; “Ran down to acquaint you with data in ve 
have to be here, there, and every where, and time | Noel Barnard and others. Gang of four! Trad- 
presses.—N. B.” ing in Friday and Cursitor streets; Merchandise 
——_—¢—_—_—. and Money! Business conducted upon legitimate 
basis; difficult party; one of them at the head 

CHAPTER XLV. of a bank! Bogus attorney, connected !” 


ee ie PhS Mr. Penfold pronounced the cautious piece of 

: strategy with immense disgust, and as though 

Tue winter drawing-room at Beresford Court. | he might have said, “‘Combine the four Courts 

Beresford Travers, Esq., Mr. Herbert Garston, | of Chancery, King’s Bench, Common Pleas, and 

and Mr. Penfold, a solicitor. Exchequer, and they won’t circumvent this pre- 
A very large room, where two old-fashioned | cious four with their bogus attorney.” 

fire-places scarcely warmed the space, yet im-| ‘You are, of course, alluding to the princi- 


192 


pals,” said Mr. Travers. “At the back of these 
are instruments of their villainy.” 

“T allude to the responsible ones, with whom 
we have to deal; the collapse of these involves 
dispersion of their abettors. This Barnard is a 
person of ability, and it may be impossible to 
bring him under coercion owing to the point 
d’appui of his defense being the law. Such a 
being would snap his fingers at any mittimus 
granted by any justice in the civil realm.” 

“T agree with you, Sir, he’s an out-and-outer ;” 
and Mr. Garston champed desperately with ever- 
increasing warmth. 

“Sir,” replied the solicitor, measuring his words 
leisurely, “all my experience in civil, common, 
and statute law has not introduced me to so 
obstinate a case. From the ramification it would 
be considered easy to effect a seizure; but as the 
law stands, it is a matter of delicacy—” 

“Yes, I would stand upon delicacy with the 
scoundrels,” interrupted the younger gentleman, 
vehemently. 

“You misapprehend my meaning, Sir,” explain- 
ed the solicitor, politely. 

“JT think my friend understood your meaning, 
Mr. Penfold, but his warm interest and sympathy 
betrays him to ironical expression of his con- 
tempt ;” and with a kind, affectionate smile, Mr. 
Travers reclined in his easy-chair. The whole 
affair disturbed the reposeful grace of his years 
and the tranquillity of his nature, and it was em- 
inently distasteful. 

“T appreciate Mr. Garston’s co-operation, as I 
am sure any one would, Sir; it is a pleasure to 
meet with a gentleman so little disposed to let 
the grass grow under his feet when absorbed by 
a pursuit of this nature. As a rule, men are in- 
dolent where the interests of another are con- 
cerned.” Thus the solicitor, accepting his cli- 
ent’s remark with becoming grace. 

_“T have to slightly amend that observation, 
Sir,” said Mr. Garston, emphatically. ‘The in- 
quiry does concern me, very deeply so. Lionel 
Travers was my best friend. Much as I love 
Mr. Travers, I loved his son better; my interest 
and sympathy, as you call it, represent devotion 
to his memory. Were Lionel Travers to be re- 
stored to life again, I could meet my friend with 
an honest brow, conscious of never having once 
forgotten him, ay, and of having given my all in 
the endeavor to clear his honored name.” 

“God bless you!” murmured the old gentleman. 
His face was turned from the speakers, and he 
was much affected. 

Mr. Penfold coughed a little, dry, office cough. 
He was accustomed to cough when necessary to 
intimate to an overcome client that time and law 
will not wait upon sentiment. ‘‘ You will excuse 
my returning to the indictment; unfortunately ne- 
cessitas non habet leges. We have no grasp of this 
person’s present; he is literally within the pale 
of the law; our station must be, is the supposed 
crime in esse? If not, we are the weaker; a pre- 
sumed scandalum magnatum has no validity until 
corroborative evidence is established.” 

“Such confounded villainy needs no corrobora- 
tive evidence!” cried Mr. Garston, excited by the 
lawyer’s coolness. 

“JT am sure you will pardon me,” explained Mr. 
Penfold, with deliberate civility ; “ nothing in crim- 
inal accusation can be established without corrob- 
orative evidence. The conspiracy to defraud, the 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


plot to destroy, the after-scheme of abduction, are 
all suppositional on the part of my clients, "and 
admit of no basis whereon the legal adviser can 
work.” 

“‘Then in mercy’s name make one, Sir!” 

The solicitor bowed, and with a dry smile, re- 
plied: “This is not a case of ex Sacto jus oritur ; ‘ 
there is little or no fact to serve. Under these 
conditions we are forced to retrace. Coram nobis: 
a man of opulence, trading largely, in perfectly 
solvent concerns, head of a : flourishing company : 
this all had a beginning, the prosperity had an 
origin, the man came from somewhere; that point 
is all- important before progress is made with the 
present. We may trip him with his past.” 

“Tt is generally believed,” put in Mr. Garston, 
hotly, “that he was generated on the sands of In- 
dia, the old serpent being his progenitor !” 

“ My dear Herbert!” murmured Mr. Travers, 
reprovingly, 

“TI beg your pardon, Sir; 
moment I was out-of-doors.” 

“What difference would that make?” asked 
his friend. 

“More space for words, Sir. But seriously, 
Mr. Penfold, your argument is good. I’ve been 
searching up his antecedents no end of time, and 
I have arrived at the satisfactory point of finding 
him every thing, every where.” 

“ Lord Campbell, Sir, says, ‘It is the business 
of courts reasonably to shape their rules of evi- 
dence,’ not to exclude the actual facts. The ad- 
dress and the attainments we know this man to 
possess point to an earlier career of honor— 

“Do IT understand you to be eulogizing the man, 
Sir?” asked Mr. Garston, “If so, I “prefer to 
leave the room.” 

“Not at all,” answered the lawyer, mildly; “I 

was about to deduce an inference. We can not, 
absque talt causd, discover either an ignoble, an ig- 
norant, or a cr iminal first cause; and to disinte- 
grate or disintricate the promoting influences is at 
once the commencement of operations and the 
foundation of our superstructure.” 

““One of the reasons why I have tried to do 
without legal assistance, Mr. Penfold, has been 
my apprehension of the mystery in which things 
are at present shrouded being rendered still thick- 
er. I am sure, out of regard for my altogether 
mediocre faculties, you will simplify as much as 
possible. As the Bard of Avon—whom I don’t 
admire half so much as most people, but agree 
with sometimes—says in King Henry VI, 


I thought for the 


““¢In these nice sharp quillets of the law, 
Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.’” 


Mr. Penfold smiled blandly. He was conscious 
of being wise himself, but experienced a certain 
humiliation under the reflection that that scoundrel 
O’Connor was a good deal wiser. 

“The law, Sir, scarcely permits of the simpli- 
fied phraseology which you prefer.” 

“ Exactly ; just the reason I dislike it ; the plain- 
er the speech the more honest, in my opinion. 
Reducing our position to plain speech it amounts. 
to this—after all the time and money expended, 
we appear to be no nearer obtaining a clew to poor 
Lionel’s death and the difficulties which led to it, 
or the cause of those difficulties; no nearer the 
clew to the disappearance of his wife and child, and 
their present concealment, supposing them "still 
alive; and this is eminently unsatisfactory, Sir.” 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


The family solicitor peered keenly under his 
shaggy eyebrows, drew his outspread hand 
thoughtfully down the short whiskers meeting 
under the chin, and replied : 

“Nothing is so difficult to deal with as a com- 
plication of surmises, none of which fall under 
lex non scripta or lex scripta. Order and method 
regulate those movements contriving the release 
from the complication. You will recollect Feltham 
said, ‘ Laws were made to restrain and punish the 
wicked ; the wise and good do not need them as 
a guide, but only as a shield.’ You are by ad- 
mission ignorant of the law, possibly happily so ; 
it must therefore be left in the hands of those 
versed in its science and structure, and so long as 
law is law it will be slow of progress, consistent 
with its majesty of purpose.” The solicitor vin- 
dicated the gravity of his periods with much feel- 
ing. This address only served to further excite 
Mr. Garston, who replied, hastily, 

“T am not familiar with Feltham, but I do re- 
member warm-hearted, honest Swift’s remark, that 
‘Laws are like cobwebs, which may catch small 
flies, but let wasps and hornets break through.’ ” 

The solicitor bowed, as though to imply there 
was no doubt whatever about the Dean having 
thus committed an impropriety. Mr. Travers had 
listened to the exchange of quotation with some 
amusement. His friend Herbert seldom quoted ; 
when he did, it was always a more bitter senti- 
ment than he would have thought of himself. ‘TI 
think, perhaps,” said the old gentleman, courteous- 
ly, ‘‘ Buckingham’s apothegm may adjust the dif- 
ference between you two—‘ However the law, to 
make it a mystery and a trade, may be wrapped 
up in terms of art, yet it is founded on reason and 
obvious to common-sense.’ ”’ 

“Tm not so sure of that,” answered Mr. Gar- 
ston, who was as fond of the last word as a Dutch 
market-woman ; “ but I would thank any law, and 
respect it, that effected an agreeable release from 
our difficulty.” 

“ Primd facie, insurmountable,” said the solic- 
itor; “calmly looked at, a matter alone of time 
and ingenious tracing out and following up, sus- 
pended during my research into antecedents, which 
indicates our strong line. It is useless to force 
this inquiry; the penetration of judicature takes 
its one course—minute examination and analysis, 
not cursory survey. True, there are instances of 
inquiries having been abruptly terminated by 
some sudden discovery or revelation, some coup 
the most profound of Chancellors would never 
have foreseen— God bless me!” 

The exclamation was excited by the opening of 
the door; by there standing in the frame, as upon 
a life-size canvas, Lionel himself. The dusky, 
richly furnished, heavily leathered space between 
them and the doorway almost rendered the effect 
illusory—or might have done to any one but a 
family solicitor. Mr. Penfold certainly was as- 
tounded, and lost his habitual serenity. Mr. Trav- 
ers looked up, turned round, started to his feet, 
and fell back again in the chair; it was so many 
years since he had seen his son, and the shock 
bedimmed his eyes. In the flash of the passing 
thought it seemed that from talking of his poor 
boy their fancy had wrought this shadowy ap- 
pearance. It was Herbert Garston who, with 
giant strides, made for the door with unceremo- 
nious disregard of the Beresford and Travers fur- 
niture. He knew it was ho phantasm, but, what- 


VoL. 1.—N 


e 


193 


ever the meaning and the mystery, his lost and 
much-loved friend. He almost pounced upon 
him, so huge was his joy, quivering with wondrous 
emotion; red in the face, mighty of grasp, burst- 
ing with magnificent delight, he seized his hand, 
and shook it until fragile Lionel could scarcely 
support this tremendous manifestation of rap- 
turous surprise. Lionel’s resuscitation affected 
the three in different ways; upon this warm- 
hearted, hot-headed, devoted friend it took exu- 
berant effect. There was no control about Her- 
bert Garston, any more than there was any non- 
sense, and he at all times allowed the genuine 
state of his feelings to become evident. It served 
to give time for Mr. Travers to recover himself, 
and thus, upon this occasion, was welcome. Mr. 
Garston dragged his recovered friend into the 
room, again caught his two hands, and aimost 
wrung them off, pulled him more forward until 
in the space between fires, faced him about for 
the others to see—high of color from the violent 
exercise to which he had been subjected, and 
laughing at Herbert’s tremendous enthusiasm, as 
the latter cried out to the solicitor, ‘ Here’s the 
best release from all our difficulty.” 

The two gentlemen came hastily forward to 
greet the restored one, the solicitor falling back 
a pace to permit his esteemed client to embrace 
his’ son. This Mr. Travers did with powerful 
emotion, his tremulous, broken thankfulness, 
wonderment, and solicitude dividing interjections 
with affecting entreaties for Lionel’s forgiveness 
that in past days he should have behaved with 
enmity and pride, which he had since so severely 
repented, conscious that his son had never acted 
contrary to honor and a lofty sense of filial duty. 

When he had recovered himself a little the so- 
licitor came forward and shook Mr. Lionel very 
warmly by the hand. 

“T congratulate you, my dear Sir. I will not 
say I was totally unprepared for this, but I must 
admit you have rendered the progress of our suit 
the utmost assistance in your power. At present 
we are in unhappy ignorance of the data im re 
your long absence, but we are satisfied when, 2 
propria persond, one we believed civiliter morturs 
stands with us—” 

“Hale and hearty!” interrupted Mr. Garston, 
with an affectionately adiniring glance at his 
handsome friend. 

“ By a physical figure Mr. Garston conveys the 
meaning I could not better have expressed.” 
Mr. Penfold was marvellously polite, considering 
he deemed Lionel had perpetrated a ruse ; and a 
ruse outside the law partook so closely of the na- 
ture of a trespass that the worthy solicitor re- 
garded it with strong disfavor. 

Presently this party of gentlemen became more 
calm and better fitted for a little quiet family 
talk. From the origin, through the process to 
the sequel, Lionel recounted his history, and it 
was edifying to hear Mr. Garston exclaim— 

“So many times has my mother begged I would 
take her to hear that Westley Garland! Whata 
foolI have been! True, we never go to Brighton ; 
but he has so often been in London. Forgive me, 
my dear fellow, but it does seem so aggravating !” 

“T am very glad you did not,” replied his 
friend; “‘you would not have taken things so 
quietly as did Sir Kinnaird the other evening in 
Brighton, whose greatest wonder seemed to be 
that I was not a doctor of divinity.” 


194 A MODERN 


“ And now, Mr. Lionel,” asked the solicitor, 
‘‘can you give us information concerning the 
gang that has troubled us so long ?” 

“The most satisfactory information I can give 
you, Sir, is, that it will trouble you no longer. 
One of its prime agents, the brutal tool upon 
whom devolved the more gross description of its 
work, is a fugitive from justice for a murder 
committed upon the highway in Sussex. The 
financial manager for the scoundrels is in the 
same predicament for heavy frauds and embez- 
zlement of money. The chief of this black firm, 
with whom I have had at the last a sharp encoun- 
ter, will leave immediately for India or a convict 
settlement.” 

“ The latter, I hope,” said Mr. Garston, devoutly. 

“The only member left practicing is—” 

“Yes ?” asked the family solicitor, with an ani- 
mation he seldom displayed. 

“Their attorney, one Coke O’Connor !” 

The solicitor sank back gasping— 

“Then, Sir, your firm is not exterminated, nor 
ever likely to be. With Lucifer at one end of 
the world and Beelzebub at the other, how on 
earth is peace to reign or equity to flourish ?” 

‘“‘T always had an idea, Mr. Penfold,” said Her- 
bert Garston, with energy, “‘ that equity flourished 
more conspicuously when peace was dethroned.” 

Seeing that their friend was disconcerted by 
this blunt passage at arms, the Minister, ad- 
dressing his father with loving respect, roused 
his curiosity in some degree. 

“ve brought a little present for you, my dear 
father, but as I saw Mrs. Garston sitting cozily by 
the fire as I passed the library, I have left it with. 
her to be duly admired.” 

“IT must go and see what it is,” said the old 
gentleman, rising; he half guessed, and was 
thrilled with the pleasurable anticipation. 

He found it there, upon a hassock beside the 
lady, and the sight of its little flushed face, beau- 
tiful hair tossed back from the white temples, 
eyes looking up, taking in himself so long thought 
of, pleased him, and he quite lost the dignity 
upon which he prided himself, stooping to his 
grandchild, an inmate of Beresford Court, then, 
after all. Mrs. Garston was rejoiced to see this 
display of affection. The lady had been the con- 
necting link, friendly both with Mr. Travers and 
with his son, and-she bitterly felt the estrange- 
ment, had often put in a word for Lionel and his 
beautiful child when staying at the court. She 
had deeply sympathized with the troubles, and 
terrible uncertainties succeeding the troubles, 
which had befallen the family ; and when Lionel, 
with Ella, appeared at the library door, it had 
been a surprise and joy in one. He took her 
mto his confidence first, having thus unexpected- 
ly met with his old friend, and left Ella with her, 
thus spoiling his original little innocent scheme, 
which had been to allow the child to steal in un- 
awares upon Mr. Travers and take him captive 
by herself. 

Presently, after the departure of the solicitor, 
a happy circle gathered around the board at Ber- 
esford Court, only shadowed by the absence of 
Mrs. Travers, who was not yet strong enough to 
undertake a second journey; but Lionel’s father 
announced his wish to return with them, and per- 
sonally bear to his ward the message of his sor- 


row for the past. 
And next to the reunion with his wife and re- 


MINISTER. 


covery of his child, the reconciliation with his fa- 
ther was the event that gave greatest joy to the 
Minister. 


_—— a 


CHAPTER XLVI. 
THE CHEFFINGER DENOUEMENT. 


Hien festival was being held at Cuerrinerr, 
the seat of Sir Dickson Cheffinger, Baronet, only 
recently and without litigation established in the 
home of his ancestors. It was the new baronet’s 
own proposal that a general allowance should be 
paid annually to the late owner, and this he was 
wise enough to accept, without involving himself 
in the embarrassment of a losing contest. 

And Sir Dickson, who would not have caused 
his greatest enemy a moment’s pain, settled down 
upon his estates with a comfortable feeling, and 
that satisfaction experienced when the long wait- 
ed for becomes with justice one’s very own. 

The slight excitement attendant upon the im- 
portant results described did not serve to allay 
the chronic restlessness and eccentricity so pe- 
culiarly Sir Dickson’s own, and he considerably 
astonished the servants of his predecessor, whom 
he would not discharge, when he informed them 
they would by no means have an idle time of it, 
as he proposed to entertain at CHEFFINGER large 
companies of those illustrious by birth and emi- 
nent by genius; in fact, he purposed extending 
right royal hospitality upon a larger and more 
select scale than their late master, and for the 
carrying out of which the utmost resources of the 
establishment would be taxed. There was grave 
communing in the servants’ hall: they thought 
the resources had been pretty well taxed, and 
strong as was the staff of domestics, they con- 
templated excess of trouble with any thing but 
pleasure; and when one day Sir Dickson inad- 
vertently let fall the remark that he had issued 
invitations to the number of eight hundred, a spe- 
cies of dismay spread through Cheffinger Abbey ; 
and the retainers thought their former master, 
even if he was a morose man, or impetuously 
passionate as the mood took him, was more sen- 
sibly within bounds. However, elaborate prepa- 
rations were made for the reception of the large 
company; and spacious as the Abbey appeared, 
it became problematical where the aristocracy 
would lay its head. The sleeping apartments 
were many, but the number of coming guests 
was beyond all reason; and the head servants, 
in conjunction with that important person the 
housekeeper, were troubled beyond measure to 
know what was to be done. 

Unfortunately there was no hotel to which the 
unmarried gentlemen could be asked to resort, 
nor any neighboring mansion, the friendly family 
whereof might courteously extend hospitality; 
room must be found for them all at CHEFFINGER, 
and those in office were distracted. Several extra 
chambers were gained by fitting up rooms over 
the stables for the servants, while the repapered — 
and refurnished apartments thus obtained were 
set apart for the unmarried gentlemen aforesaid. 
Naturally Sir Dickson bustled about, quiveringly 
alert, and as he grew more excited, the more ex- 
cited became his assistants. Of course he was 
inordinately happy; hospitality was the one great 
observance of civilized life that gave Sir Dickson 
unlimited pleasure. 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


For so large a number of visitors great stores | 


of delicacies and many wines were necessary, and 
the comptrollers of pantry and cellar had their 
hands full to inconvenience. A banquet was to 
be the foremost sign of the grand hospitality of 
CHEFFINGER, and since Sir Dickson considered the 
banquet the life and soul of genuine hospitality, 
he would set an example to some of these people 
of what English cheer and the cheer of Caerrin- 
GER should be. 

“My guests,” said Sir Dickson to himself, with 
sorrowful solemnity, ‘“‘ have often had to sit down 
to fare it has grieved me to see James place be- 
fore them, but now that it is in my power, I will 
endeavor to make amends for all that my circum- 
stances, not my will, have made me fall short of 
in the hearty cordiality I love.” 

Sir Dickson agreed with Edmund Burke, that 
“ Nobility is a graceful ornament to the civil order, 
the Corinthian capital of polished society ;” and 
he was determined to mark his admiration for 
the Corinthian capital by costly entertainment, pos- 
sibly by altiloquence. The Cheffinger baronet 
was a philosopher with all his eccentricity, and 
the acme of his philosophy was that method of 
patrician regard which he carried to the extremity 
of sublime nonsense, but which, the more non- | 
sensical in the eyes of the unsympathetic, was 
the more real to him. The board might gleam 
with cups executed in pdte sur pdte sous émail by 
Gely; with old Venetian schmelze glass; with 
Celadon vases, whereon the modelling was a reve- 
lation; and Chalcedony-agate work by Salviati of 
Venice; with Neo-Gree exquisiteness from the 
house of Barbédienne of Paris; with gems from 
the Josephinen-Hiitte, near Warmbrunn; with the 
rare painting and crystal hues found but upon the 
Schaffgotsch specimens; and with the priceless 
ruby glass made by Kunkel, the chemist to the 
Elector of Saxony, seen now but in the possession 
of a few old families, whose dining tables it orna- 
ments about once in each decade. The Cheffinger 
would display all this! The board should gleam 
from end to end of the long oak dining hall with 
the glass which had given the Abbey fame, and 
which, with the deer and the timber, was quoted 
in connection with the name. But it was not the 
glass, with all its splendor, that afforded in Sir 
Dickson’s eyes the ultra-perfection of fitting re- 
ception at the table. It would have served for a 
mere ordinary gathering; but the party shortly 
to assemble demanded more elegant appointments. 
They saw glass in abundance elsewhere. He 
would introduce more sumptuous decoration and 
embellishment; the eight hundred should never 
forget Cuerrincer! Time had been when its 
hospitality seemed kingly; that time should come 
again ! 

Thus the enthusiasm promoting such astonish- 
ing preparations occupied Sir Dickson with busi- 
ness from morning to night. He was in his ele- 
ment, and applied himself with a zest one would 
have scarcely credited his fragile constitution 
could hold in reserve. It did not, however, take 
a vulgar turn; if the board gleamed with glass, 
it should not groan with gold, valuable and an- 
tique as was that of Curerrincer. It was not a 
Guildhall feast he invited his people to; some- 
thing chaste and more in accord with the taste of 
a Cheffinger—a grand regalement Epicurus might 
have deigned to attend. Sir Dickson detested 
meanness, and would give the lie to it at his ap- 


195 


proaching jubilee. He had endured much at the 
hands of meanness; he would settle that score 
with the superfluity of generous kindness of which 
his soul was full. He never forgot the nasty and 
narrow traits pricking one hither and thither, but 
his was a lofty type of nature, that, if it qualified 
him for Colney Hatch, enabled him not only to 
graciously forgive the world in lieu of bearing it 
malice, but likewise to extend a magnificence of 
welcome that should blot out the memory of it on 
both sides. 

It was a critical time, a time of acute anxiety, 
as the day fixed for the arrival of the guests drew 
near. Sir Dickson waxed feverish; the honor of 
the name it was his pride to bear was at stake ; 
the opportunity of making that honor more splen- 
; did than of yore was at hand. Sir Dickson trem- 
bled lest any thing should mar or prevent the car- 
rying out of his arrangements. 

What a change had come over his prospects, 
and how he had altered in his condition since 
those sad and poverty-stricken days when he en- 
tertained the noble and illustrious upon most 
sorry fare, but always to the best of his ability ! 
“ And even then,” he said to himself, complacent- 
| ly, “royal dukes deigned to visit me, and sit at 
| the poor table; what will they do now?” It was 
certain that Sir Dickson expected the attendance 
of royal, noble, and illustrious personages without 
limit, now that he had space and means to receive 
|them. Among the guests invited there could not 
| but be many altogether unknown to Sir Dickson, 
but he did not trouble about this; frigidness was 
not one of his fashionable qualities; and he was 
so in harmony with all men, that a stranger re- 
mained such but a very short time. 

The information of the coming of royalty rather 
increased the excitement. The eight hundred and 
odd forming the expected party were considered 
sufficient tax, but when to these certain person- 
ages of more exalted station were added, it seemed 
the straw destined to break the back of that pa- 
tient camel, ycleped the household. 

The eventful day dawned, and immense was the 
agitation. It almost seemed that the very sun- 
shine of that day was different to the usual beam- 
ing; the red deer herding beneath the distant 
trees, forming the attraction of the park view as 
seen from the mansion, were, to the impressed 
servitors, duly conscious of the importance of the 
day; and those old trees sheltering them were 
surely flooded with more radiance than usual. 

Hours of the day slowly passed and nothing 
transpired; all were upon the look-out in anx- 
ious expectancy, so the time dragged tediously. 
The great banquet was ready for the great in- 
vited, but these seemed tardy, and Sir Dickson, 
care on his forehead, walked gravely the wide hall 
and terrace with a manner slighted and discom- 
forted, but not with any loss of faith in the com- 
ing of the guests or in the guests themselves. All 
the hours between noon and even-tide the distant 
drive was eagerly scanned by many pairs of eyes, 
but no sign of the approach of a party, large or 
small, rewarded the diligent watchers. 

Then a vehicle was discerned, but not a royal 
vehicle evidently, for one of the footmen said it 
was “a buggy!” Anyway it was an unassuming 
chariot whatever its name and style. To it was 
harnessed a horse—it might be the distance which 
reduced equine perfection, but to those on guard 
it looked decidedly bony. Upon the driver’s seat 


196 


was a man; they could not distinguish the man’s 
quality, but it was remarked with disgust that he 
was not in livery, and that he wore a head-dress 
described by the same footman as a “ billycock !” 
Sir Dickson saw the strange concern also, and 
hastily gave it as his opinion, to an attendant, 
that it was some of the luggage being sent on in 
advance. ‘“ We shall hear something now !” said 
the baronet, with a slightly solemn manner. And, 
as the strange conveyance approached, he breathed 
quick with impatience. The man who was driv- 
ing was in no way intimidated by the spacious 
front of the Abbey or by the string of retainers 
upon the steps. Possibly he was accustomed to 
driving up to large places, or he may not have 
been of the impressionable order ; it is certain he 
was not abashed by the architectural or personal 
glories of Cheffinger. He drove up to the front 
entrance, and jumping down from the box, hur- 
ried, with the unmistakable manner of the hack- 
ney cabman, to open the door for his passenger. 
A sallow-faced little woman alighted, with precise 
care that her best dress did not become soiled 
while she was getting out ; it was a quiet gray- 
colored dress of no fashion nor style, indeed neat 
to a fault: she had linen cuffs over black kid 
gloves, a plain black bonnet above the gray bands 
of hair, a large gingham umbrella, and a small 
parcel done up in brown paper. 

Poor Sir Dickson standing aghast, to the front 
of the scandalized retainers of CHEFFINGER, recog- 
nized his sometime landlady, the amiable Miss 
Turner, and he was very much perplexed ; but his 
innate politeness, never entirely absent, prompted 
what his presence of mind neglected—he advanced 
to greet the lady, and invited her to enter. 

Miss Turner, equally pleasant, reminded the 
baronet, in a low voice, of a request, and promise 
she had made during his sojourn in Brighton, but 
which, up to that moment, he had forgotten every 
word of. It was to this effect—when he was 
settled in his own house, she was to be sure and 
come to see him, in return for her attentive kind- 
ness while an inmate of her house. Sir Dickson 
had not settled the small account connected there- 
with, but promised to do so when Miss Turner 
called upon him; he also said that if she would 
do this, he should consider it a privilege to dis- 
charge the travelling expenses incurred upon the 
journey. And the plain-dealing, simple-hearted 
woman had thought much of this little plan, and 
ultimately decided to accept the invitation, made, 
she believed, in all earnestness, and came hither, 
bringing her bill, and that parcel, which Sir Dick- 
son, with singular sensations, unfastened in the 
banqueting-room, Miss Turner standing by dazed 
and bewildered by the profuse splendor around. 
The brown paper removed, there fell out one pair 
of paper cuffs, a collar, a pair of carpet slippers, 
and a faded Peerage. 

“You left them upon the chest of drawers,” 
explained Miss Turner, quietly. 

“T thank you, madam; I—” 

Sir Dickson could say no more; he felt a chok- 
ing at the throat; all the old painful time was re- 
vived by the sight of them, the weary, poverty- 
stricken era when CuEerriInGeR—the dream of 
forty years—was the sole hope supporting him. 
Gratitude takes different modes of expressing it- 
self; Sir Dickson’s took this mode—waving his 
hand toward the splendid array, he said, seri- 
ously, 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


“T owe all this to your friend, the Minister.” 

Apparently it touched a responsive chord, for 
the pew-opener brushed some tears aside while 
bowing her head with sympathetic interest. 

Miss Turner was introduced to the housekeeper 
at CHEFrINGER. The condescending airs assumed 
by this person did not trouble Miss Turner, who 
was very meek and naturally grateful, so that 
they got along pretty well together; and the bar- 
onet having announced the visitor as his friend, it 
guaranteed her respectful attention. But all this 
time Sir Dickson’s anxiety was not allayed, and 
the imaginary guests did not, of course, appear. 
The time went on and the day drew in, the trees 
in the park became indistinct, the drive was lost 
sight of in a dim perspective, evening crept over 
the fair domain with a gradual abstraction of its 
beauties, and still the humble pew-opener remain- 
ed the solitary guest at CHEFFINGER: surely such 
a jubilee never was known! But Sir Dickson was 
not going to be depressed by the discourtesy of 
those upon whom he had depended. If they lack- 
ed the fine breeding and polished manners of a 
Cheffinger, he might feel regret, but he could not 
feel surprise (for the Cheffingers were unapproach- 
able); nor annoyance, for he possessed the pleas- 
ant consciousness of having done his best. He 
was scrupulous to do this at all times, and left 
the rest; he did it now, by ordering that the wax 
lights upon the banquet table should all be light- 
ed and dinner be served for his visitor and him- 
self; and a very elegant service it was, as may be 
imagined from the profuse choice. The host and 
his visitor sat alone at the board, and Sir Dick- 
son’s elaborate cordiality relieved both the isola- 
tion and embarrassment. 

Sir Dickson had before this been charmed and 
won by the quiet, matronly, thoughtful manners, 
and the considerate regard shown by his whilom 
landlady for his comfort. He now had a further 
opportunity of observing those agreeable traits, 
and long before the evening was over felt within 
himself that he had never seen any one who so 
truly engaged his appreciative thought, always ex- 
cepting the Princess, who had once flashed upon 
his dull life radiantly. 

Thus Miss Turner helped to console the origi- 
nator of the entertainment for what was at once a 
blow and disappointment. 

“ve a very good mind,” said Sir Dickson; 
‘not to issue any more invitations. If people 
like to call, well and good; they will take us as 
we are, and if they choose to stop away they must 
do so. The worst of a man’s entering upon his 
property late in life is that he is looked upon with 
suspicion, and not treated with the genial unre- 
serve customary where he has occupied his estates 
all his life.” 

On the following day Miss Turner would have 
introduced her business, wishing to go to her own 
home; but Sir Dickson so persistently entreated 
she would make her stay a day or two longer, 
and she enjoying it so much, never having had a 
treat of the kind before, and feeling the change 
beneficial (it had been sorely needed, as she knew 
all too well before entering upon the long journey 
—she felt it the one and sufficient justification), 
she consented and staid on a while longer. But 
when the day of departure came, while standing 
in the great drawing-room to say farewell to her 
good-natured host, she thought, with a pang, of 
the splendor she was about to leave, the humble 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


station to which she was returning, and she sigh- 
ed, as the quietest and best may sigh sometimes 
without harm to any. The baronet heard it, 
faint though it was, and divined the cause; and 
CHEFFINGER was all too dear to himself not to 
sympathize with the regret of a visitor at quitting 
its hospitable shadow. And he had something 
else upon his mind. 

Closing the doors, Sir Dickson returned with 
some mystery of manner to his pale, mild-eyed 

uest. 

“You are sorry to leave us, Miss Turner ?” 

“Very, Sir Dickson. I shall ever remember 
your goodness with gratitude.” 

“Yes, at one time it wasn’t in my power; I 
couldn’t anyhow do as I would. Providence has 
conferred upon me all that was very justly mine 
own, and now that I am enabled, it is a pleasure 
to me to extend hospitality to my friends. You 
were especially good to me in the day of adver- 
sity, and I could see it was not altogether because 
I was recommended by the Minister. There was 
deeper thoughtfulness than comes of interest. 
Miss Turner, I esteem and appreciate the good 
qualities you possess, and believe they would 
grace any station and honor any person—will 
you become Lady Cheffinger ?” 

And the man they thought mad gallantly, but 
with profound respect, took the hand of the Min- 
ister’s pew-opener. 

It came with overwhelming surprise, and would 
have staggered the heads of younger and more 
giddy women ; but this quiet person did not lose 
her presence of mind nor become bewildered at 
the view of the dazzling destiny open to her. To 
accept it she must resign attendance upon a min- 
istry and its exponent representing far more to 
her than all the resplendent plate and glass, and 
jewelry and ancientry of Cuerrincer. The dimin- 
utive little business house, with the apartments 
that would so seldom let, were thought of in a 
trice side by side with that honorable name and 
title she was asked to share by a man whom she 
really and truly liked (next to the Minister) bet- 
ter than any one she knew. Hers was a very 
plain, honest nature, and once like always like 
was the basis of it. Wealth and titles are not 
every thing to every woman, and depend upon it 
some of the quiet ones gliding on through life, well- 
nigh unnoticed beside their more attractive sisters, 
possess depths of self-denial, constancy, and en- 
durance that would astonish us did we know all. 
Miss Turner thanked Sir Dickson Cheffinger with 
much feeling, and declined the honor he would 
bestow, but liked him none the less for it. 

The baronet, nevertheless, perceived half-lurk- 
ing partiality behind the diffident refusal, and 
moreover saw no possible reason why the lady 
should decline his offer. He had long recognized 
in her gentle ways and quiet demeanor graces 
that would become a duchess, and he modestly 
felt to possess qualities which would go well with 
these. Allied with this thought was one of won- 
derment that a person of Miss Turner’s good sense 
could anyhow decline Cuerrincer, if she declined 
himself. There must be some mistake some- 
where! Sir Dickson repeated his proposal more 
persuasively, used manly and plain terms in har- 
mony with the sincerity he loved and in compli- 
ment to the genuine character he admired; and 
she heard him without displeasure, but with cor- 
responding freedom from affectation replied: 


197 


“T thank you, Sir Dickson, and beg you will 
not misinterpret the motive when I again say 
how earnestly I appreciate your goodness, but 
judge it proper to decline your proposal. The 
station I have filled has not fitted me for that to 
which you would raise me.” 

“On the contrary, Miss Turner, I could not se- 
lect a lady from any station to my mind more 
honorable, while a long association with Mr. Gar- 
land can not but prove profitable to any person— 
it creates nobility—and while I can only confer 
poor earthly rank, he gives to one the dignity for 
all eternity.” 

Her eyes filled with tears at the thought, for 
she loved his high ministry all too well, and re- 
called with affecting emotion the precious guid- 
ance, solace, and encouragement that had so oft- 
en fallen from his lips. To accept this offer would 
mean the loss of that, when, his much-needed va- 
cation at an end, he would resume his exception- 
al mission. Noticing her more tender mood, Sir 
Dickson, with feeling, turned away for a minute 
or two, and it was not until she made a move- 
ment toward the door that he interposed. The 
quiet-looking gentle countenance, the quiet-look- 
ing gray gown, the quiet-sounding footfall, were 
too much for him; he might never discover one 
of her sex so quiet again, so delicately suitable to 
grace the honors of CuEerrincer. He hastened to 
her side, caught her hand with gallant homage, 
yet with such evident respect, it wooed with the 
plea more directly from the heart than from the 
lips, and without resenting the gentle force or 
turning away her face, she smiled very kindly 
upon him, while saying, as one might say it to an 
importunate, inconsiderate one whose happiness 
is dear to us: 

“You have not sufficiently weighed this mat- 
ter. You are kindly impulsive and led away by 
a momentary appreciation of my peace-loving and 
unassuming disposition. Excuse my plain speak- 
ing; it is right at this time.” 

“And do you think a man who weighs for for- 
ty years that which should be his own is not ac- 
customed to well considering matters ? Ah, Miss 
Turner, you do not know all it is to stand isolated 
with one’s thought, intensely lonely, without sym- 
pathy, yet with a heart full of affection, and a 
soul that would soar if it had but companion- 
ship !” 

Oh yes, she did, and this appeal went home to 
her as none had done—she knew that feeling—a 
kindred nature stood by her, and it was more to 
her than degree, than wealth, ay, and as much as 
was charmed listening to the inspired eloquence 
of one who could never be more to her than the 
adorable teacher, the spiritual guide from narrow 
ways and weary cares to the higher rest. Miss 
Turner knew perfectly well that Sir Dickson 
Cheffinger was rather qualified by weakness than 
by strength, that he was as poor a mortal as her- 
self by physical laws, and the worthy soul would 
feel really happier to know that he was well and 
kindly cared for. 

“T can quite sympathize with the experience 
you describe, Sir Dickson.” 

“And you will try to alter it, will change your 
mind, will you not?” he pleaded, earnestly. 

She was thoughtful an instant, and then, with 
a voice vainly struggling to be calm, she tremu- 
lously answered, “ Yes.” 

Sir Dickson Cheffinger was exceedingly grati- 


198 


fied, and when Miss Turner quitted Cheffinger 
Abbey, it was only to arrange for the disposal of 
her business and the election of her successor at 
the church. Mr. Garland was of course commu- 
nicated with, and he expressed his satisfaction at 
the result of the friendship between his old friend 
and their much-esteemed helper in the past, 
Furthermore, he said it would give him pleasure 
to perform the interesting ceremony upon his re- 
turn to his church. 


- 


A MODERN MINISTER. 


He fulfilled this promise; and the resumption 
of duty caused friends and admirers to flock about 
him with flattering testimony to the regard in 
which he was held; and then, more than ever, 
the friend of the people, and still the quoted of 
the cultured, he knew a joy unknown to him be- 
fore—a joy that caught its sunshine of the fair 
faces of those imparting the rarest delight and 
richest treasure upon earth, a loving wife and 
lovely child. 


THE END. 


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